


Beyond the Shadows

by Baniac



Series: Child of Darkness [2]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, Origin Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2017-12-29 23:41:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 37
Words: 90,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1011459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baniac/pseuds/Baniac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>BEYOND THE SHADOWS follows Bane and Talia through their early years in the League of Shadows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the sequel to my Bane origins saga, RISEN FROM DARKNESS, but both stories can be read as stand-alone novels. A third story (INTO THE FIRE) follows.

            Within seconds of the mask being seated over his mouth and nose, Bane panicked. He could not breathe, and the world closed in upon him, as if he were back in the pit prison and the shaft were collapsing over him.

            “Get it off!” he cried, scrabbling to find the fasteners where the mask wrapped around the back of his head.

            “Wait,” Choden, his medical attendant, insisted, attempting to block Bane’s efforts. “Breathe. Breathe and relax.”

            “I can’t breathe! Take it off!”

            “You’re hurting him!” Talia’s shrill voice added to the confusion in the room. The ten-year-old tried to pull away from her father, who stood watching, but Henri Ducard’s large hands upon her shoulders held her in place. “Choden, stop! Take it off!”

            At last Bane dislodged the mask, which Choden had not been able to completely secure due to his patient’s struggles. Bane batted it from his face, and as it fell beside him on his bed, he jumped to his feet, shoved away from Choden, and stood with his back to the near wall, facing his tormentor, gasping through the wreckage of his mutilated face. Even though he was dosed with morphine, sharp pain still found its way through the drug’s defense. Talia broke free from her father—or perhaps Ducard released her—and she ran to Bane, throwing her arms around his waist and staring defiantly, protectively over her shoulder at Choden. The Tibetan attendant sighed and shook his head.

            “Bane,” Ducard said in his usual placid tone, stepping forward to pick up the mask. “A claustrophobic reaction is expected, but you must face your fear and conquer it quickly or this,” he held up the mask, “cannot help you. And without this, you have no hope of a fully functioning existence. You’ve refused surgery; this is your only option now.”

            As he listened to Ducard, Bane forcibly slowed his breathing, closed his eyes momentarily, nodded in resignation. Yet his heart still hammered against his chest; no doubt Talia could hear it from where she pressed against him. He briefly, appreciatively returned her embrace, gaining strength from her touch, one hand stroking her new growth of hair—dark and soft, like her mother’s hair had been. He hated for her to see him with his bandages off and his injuries thus laid bare—his nose in ruin, having nearly been severed from his face, deep lacerations that were still healing, some that refused to knit, his torn lips giving him a permanent, gruesome grimace that revealed several missing teeth; all the result of a horrendous beating suffered at the hands of fellow inmates when he had fought to keep them away from Talia on the day of her escape.

            “I’m sorry, Choden,” Bane said, embarrassed now by his display of weakness and fear.

            His ever-tolerant attendant bowed with understanding. “You needed to prepare yourself better,” Choden said. “I warned you. You were too eager for this to work, too sure of your own abilities. Humility is a valuable virtue, my friend, one you would do well to learn. Now come…sit back down.”

            “You don’t have to, _habibi_ ,” Talia said defensively. “Why don’t you wait to try it on tomorrow?” She gave Choden a chilly, challenging glance.

            Bane had noticed a change in Talia ever since word had arrived that the prototype mask was finished and would soon be delivered to their refuge high in the Himilayas. He had expected her to be excited and anxious, as he had been, but instead she had grown quiet and thoughtful. Now, looking into her large blue eyes, he realized that she was afraid, afraid that the mask would enable him to regain some semblance of his old self and then that would lead to him leaving her to find his own way in the world, a world that was virtually unknown to the two of them after spending all of their young lives unjustly incarcerated in an underground prison until two months ago.

            “Talia,” Ducard said. “It is Bane’s decision to make.”

            “It’s all right, _habibati_ ,” Bane assured, gently taking her by the shoulders and urging her back from him. “I should try again. Choden and your father are right.”

            She frowned with worry and held his hand, all the while bravely refusing to look away from the ruination of his face. He knew that seeing him without his bandages caused Talia as much emotional pain as they caused him physical pain because she blamed herself for what had happened to him, no matter how many times he insisted she abandon her guilt. So the sooner he allowed the mask to hide these marks from her, the better.

            She continued to hold his hand as he returned to the bed where she then sat close beside him, all the while keeping her attention upon him. Ever since Talia’s father had rescued him from the pit prison following his daughter’s escape, the paradigm of their relationship had shifted—Bane was no longer Talia’s protector; instead, Talia guarded him with the ferocious tenacity of a lioness, whether it was from Choden’s medical ministrations or from her father’s persistent encouragement for Bane’s return to physical activity. Sometimes her behavior amused Bane; other times it mortified him. After nurturing her since the day of her birth—and as sole caregiver after her mother’s murder when Talia was five—Bane found nothing as frustrating as knowing that he was now incapable of continuing his role, a role that had given him true purpose in life.

            Talia’s insistence on being with Bane whenever he was subjected to challenges, such as the fitting of this mask, was not always favored by Ducard. Though Ducard was sympathetic to Bane’s physical trials, he was also a man of great personal fortitude, as were all of the men under his command, and though Talia was merely a child, Ducard expected a certain amount of strength from his daughter as well. Sometimes Bane wondered if Ducard wished his offspring were a boy, not out of any disdain for the so-called weaker sex but because of the type of life he led, a life that was still primarily a mystery to Bane but one that was most assuredly different from the lives led by so many the world over. Everything about Ducard and the men who lived here at this converted monastery and those who came and went was shrouded in secrecy. Occasionally Bane gathered enough nerve to ask veiled questions of his guardian, but usually the cryptic responses he received subtly warned him not to delve too deep. Yet Bane also sensed that a part of Ducard wanted to open at least a portion of his world to Bane, perhaps the way he would share his life if he had a son of his own. It was in those moments that Bane wanted nothing more than to earn Ducard’s esteem…and perhaps eventually his love.

            Choden was saying, “This time you must keep your eyes closed, Bane, until I tell you to open them, yes?”

            Bane nodded then shut his eyes. Talia squeezed his hand to bolster him and remind him that, although he could not see her, she would remain there for him.

            “Breathe deeply,” Choden droned. “In through your nose…out through your mouth, using your diaphragm always. Yes…that’s it. Feel the air lift and expand your chest. Then release and feel the energy flow down into your arms, your fingers, your legs, and your feet, relaxing every muscle as it goes. Imagine yourself outside in the open, the sky blue and wide, the mountains strong and bright. You have no fear.”

            As Choden coached him, the Tibetan carefully placed the mask once again, gently at first, then tighter, closer as he adjusted the straps that ran alongside Bane’s cheekbones and jaw, then fastened them at the back of Bane’s head, which was shaved to ensure the mask’s snug fit.

            “Now,” Choden continued, “keeping your eyes closed, feel the mask. Feel it conform to your face, feel it become a part of you, feel it assist your breathing. Breathe…continue to breathe deeply.” He tapped the small chamber at the back of the apparatus, and a gentle hiss sounded, followed by an influx of vapor, very fine, soothing like a light breeze, moist at first, then the moisture faded. The inhalant filled Bane’s senses, momentarily overpowering him, and fear returned, trying to convince him that what he was inhaling would harm, not help, him.

            But just before panic could take over and force his eyes open, Bane heard Ducard’s smooth, throaty voice, close, as if he stood just over Choden’s shoulder: “Don’t fight it, Bane. Draw it deep within you. Relax and allow it, welcome it.”

            Talia still held onto him. With one finger, she gently stroked the back of his hand, ever so lightly, like a feather. This, along with Ducard’s strong presence, succeeded in pushing back Bane’s terror. The compound expelled by the mask seemed to stabilize, no longer overwhelming him. His quickened pulse began to slow, the sound of his respiration no longer wheezing through the mask’s ports.

            “Good,” Ducard murmured with satisfaction. “You must make yourself stronger than your fear. You must control it, and once you are able to do that, it can become your ally.”

            The concept Ducard presented was not foreign to Bane, not after surviving twenty-five years in prison. Though he had been the youngest male prisoner, he had been feared by many for both his physical strength and his superior intellect, and he had used those assets to his advantage, for his own sake as well as for the sake of Talia and her mother, Melisande.

            Choden quietly said, “Open your eyes now. Slowly. Look only at me.”

            Still cautious, Bane obeyed, first simply cracking his eyelids open as slits. Choden stared back at him, strength in his dark gaze, a strength he tried to bestow upon Bane. Talia’s grip tightened upon his hand, and he knew she was holding her breath. He opened his eyes further, saw that Ducard was indeed standing at Choden’s right shoulder. Ducard’s gray gaze held none of the uncertainty that Bane felt, and from this Bane drew inspiration.

            The pale, hard plastic molding of the upper part of the mask easily invaded Bane’s field of vision, but he forced himself not to focus upon it. Instead he continued to hold Ducard’s stare. Ducard was not a man prone to effusive facial expressions, but now he allowed a pleased smile.

            “How do you feel?” Ducard asked.

            Since the attack, Bane had received morphine through injections and IVs. Today, before Choden had attempted to fit Bane’s mask, the IV had been disconnected. Bane credited that as being part of the cause for his panic, not simply because stopping the drug would allow the agony to return but because, after weeks of being a slave to the opiate, he knew stopping it would bring its own torture. Yet he had reminded himself that the purpose of removing the IV was to test the mask’s ability to administer its own concentrated painkiller and that he would not be deprived of his usual dosage for more than the few minutes Choden expected the fitting to take.

            Now, following Ducard’s question, Bane focused upon his pain, realized it was not as severe as a moment ago.

            “Try to breathe normally now,” Choden said.

            Bane allowed himself to look at Talia. To his great relief, she showed no sign of revulsion at his strange new visage. Instead she appeared keenly interested, chewing on her bottom lip as she often did when anxious.

            “Is the medicine working?” she asked hopefully.

            Bane nodded, though in truth the pain—while lessened—certainly was not completely eradicated. But at that moment he was happy to lie in order to erase her worry.

            “Try to speak,” Ducard encouraged.

            Feeling foolish, Bane said, “What should I say?” His speech was already distorted by the damage to his mouth, and the mask muffled the sound so that his words were even more indistinct now, disappointing him.

            “Hmm,” Choden pondered with a glance up at Ducard.

            “Do not be discouraged,” Ducard told Bane. “The doctor expects this to be trial and error, as I’ve told you before. You will wear it for a couple of weeks, then I will let him know what needs to be improved. Be patient, my boy.”

            “I’m sure you’ll get used to it,” Talia said, though poorly disguising her concerns.

            Bane nodded, hoping he was convincing. “How much of a supply does it hold?” he asked Ducard and Choden.

            “Unfortunately only a couple of hours,” Ducard replied. “The doctor is trying to improve the drug’s performance. Again, trial and error. I’m sorry I cannot offer you more than that.”

            “I understand. And I appreciate everything you have done for me.”

            Ducard stepped closer and briefly touched his shoulder with that same indulgent smile. “I know you do. Now I must be on my way. As I explained to Talia this morning, I will be gone for a week to attend to an urgent matter. And,” he added with a glint of pleasure in his eye, “by the time I return I believe I will have news of your grandfather. By then, if the mask is serviceable and you are able to tolerate it, you will be able to travel with me to meet him.”

            The prospect of finally being able to mete out justice for what Thomas Dorrance had done to his mother and thus to Bane himself allowed him to momentarily forget the discomfort of the mask.

            “I will be ready,” Bane promised.


	2. Chapter 2

            Bane stood on one of the catwalks above the dojo, watching with keen interest as two men engaged each other below. The smaller fighter—a Mongol named Temujin—was a friend of Bane’s who had been liberated from prison with him. Each man was stripped to the waist, wearing only loose-fitting pants that gathered near the ankles. Their weapons were single rods of short, stout wood, which they wielded with blinding speed, their lithe bodies in constant motion, shining with sweat. Sometimes they used both hands to strike with their weapon, other times only one. Rarely did they connect, however, for each man was highly skilled in defending himself.

            Other men stood along the catwalks at various levels above, silently watching, most wearing the impassive expression that was so common here. It was an expression not altogether unfamiliar to Bane; after all, in prison any show of emotion could be dissected for weakness, and thus many had chosen to go about their lives with little more than the occasional scowl. Not so with Bane or Talia, however, for they had each other for distraction, whether playing games of checkers or backgammon, reading aloud to one another, or any of the myriad other ways in which they had entertained themselves. Somehow they had always found reasons to laugh, whether at each other or sometimes with one of their few trusted comrades, such as Temujin.

            With admiration, Bane watched the Mongol fend off a sharp attack by his opponent. For a moment it appeared that Temujin might be defeated as the other man drove him back toward the edge of the mat with a flurry of blows. The Mongol somehow managed to parry each attempt, the whole thing appearing more as a choreographed dance than a battle. Bane harkened back to the bare-fisted fights in prison, some arranged bouts, others spontaneous acts of violence—brutal, straightforward clashes; nothing like this display of balance, grace, and fluidity. The crack of the rods striking together had a steady rhythm, almost musical to Bane, exciting.

            Just as Temujin’s opponent made what he no doubt thought would be a winning thrust for Temujin’s belly, the Mongol melted away and in one smooth move somehow found space enough between his adversary’s legs to slide through on his knees, coming instantly to his feet behind his foe. With a single move that Bane could barely follow for its speed, Temujin forsook his weapon and instead took the man’s feet out from under him with a combination of one braced leg and a forceful sideways blow with one arm.

            Bane found himself the only one applauding Temujin’s victory. The others simply nodded or murmured their approval to one another while the combatants brought their hands together in front of their chests and exchanged bows. Realizing his lapse, Bane sheepishly crossed his arms. Temujin looked up at him and allowed a small grin. Then he climbed the nearest stairs to join Bane just as Talia hurried toward them.

            “I missed it, didn’t I?” she called. “Oh, I missed it. It’s all Sangye’s fault,” she continued as she came along the walkway toward them.

            “Blaming your tutor again for your own lack of concentration, are you?” Temujin teased.

            “Am not,” she insisted. “He kept going on and on about the Dalai Lama, as if he hasn’t already taught me everything about him.” She rolled her eyes, then smiled up at Bane. “Have you been wearing your mask all morning?”

            “Yes.”

            “It seems,” Temujin said, “that you are becoming more accustom to it, yes?”

            Bane nodded, hiding the misgivings and struggles he was still having while wearing the apparatus.

            “Wait until Papa hears,” Talia chirped. “He’s due back today, isn’t he, Jin?”

            “Yes, little one,” the Mongol assured. “Perhaps this afternoon.”

            Bane’s attention was on the dojo below them, his thoughts still upon the bout. “I want to learn how to fight like that,” he said to Temujin.

            “In time…once you are feeling more like your old self,” the Mongol assured.

            Bane secretly feared that would never happen. “Will you teach me?”

            Temujin laughed. “No, my young friend. I could, but that would be a disservice to you, for there are others far more skilled than I who will teach you. That is, if Ducard allows you to stay. Have you discussed this with him?”

            “No, not yet.”

            “What about your plans to be reunited with your father?”

            Now Talia studied Bane, eager and anxious to hear his response.

            “First I have to find him,” Bane said.

            Temujin grinned knowingly. “Ducard will find him, have no fear of that.”

            Bane hesitated, his frown pulling at the tightly fitted mask. “You know Ducard so much better than I do, Jin. Do you think he _would_ let me stay here?”

            Temujin considered him with a low grunt. “I never pretend to know what Henri Ducard is thinking, nor would I ever be foolish enough to assume.”

            “Of course he will let you stay, _habibi_ ,” Talia said, using the Arabic term of endearment that she had learned in prison, a place where Arabic had been the most common language. Momentarily she took his hand and swung it to and fro. Her tone, however, could not hide her doubts from someone who knew her as intimately as did Bane, but he chose not to comment upon what he sensed, at least to her, for such uncertainty would hurt her feelings. She did, after all, idolize her father, and in that Bane could not blame her. He could only hope that his own father possessed such shining parts.

            Temujin briefly patted Bane’s shoulder and, with a glance at Talia, winked. “Well, my young bull, if Ducard were to deny you, rest assured he would rue the day.”

#

            Alone in the dojo, Bane battered the heavy punching bag with a withering flurry of bare-fisted blows, ignoring the discomfort it caused his right wrist. He had fractured the joint many years ago when he had made his second attempt to climb out of the pit prison, a treacherous effort up the face of a five-hundred-foot vertical stone shaft. Since then the wrist often pained him. Today he had tightly wrapped it in support bandages while he worked out.

            Although Bane was not strong enough yet to train with any of the other men, since acquiring the prototype mask he spent as much time as he could tolerate here on his own, sparring with the bag or lifting weights. Such equipment, however, was minimal here, for these men learned combat not through brute strength but through a variety of martial arts that used balance, quickness, and flexibility, coupled with the ability to use their wits as a weapon. He spent hours watching the men train, fascinated by all he saw, eager to master such skills. But could he do so when he was so much taller than these mysterious warriors?

            “Look at Ducard,” Temujin had said when Bane voiced his concerns to him. “He is bigger than you in every way, but I promise you, he can defeat every man here. True enough, in most men, a slighter build would be preferred for this art form, but Ducard is the exception to the rule.” Temujin grinned. “An exceptional man indeed.” And Temujin, of course, spoke with authority, for he had lived with Ducard and his men two years ago, before leaving their organization to pursue his wife’s murderers.

            Bane danced around the bag on bare feet, his guard up. His breath rasped through the mask. The apparatus did not perform well while he was exerting himself. Obviously the doctor who had designed it had expected the wearer to be satisfied with merely being able to receive the mask’s medicinal qualities while hiding the heinous deformities.

            Considering his damaged body, Bane’s blows came harder, swinging the bag, causing it to tremble. Flashbacks struck him then, as they had ever since he had been attacked, most often during sleep, but regularly at other times as well, especially when he sparred with the bag…flashes of the prisoners who had attacked him… There had been so many, all around, suffocating him, pressing against him so tightly that there was no room for punches, only tearing, ripping, pounding, clawing hands, hands that restrained Bane’s arms, leaving him vulnerable. But by then he had not struggled against them; he had fought long and hard enough up until then—Talia had escaped beyond their reach, climbing the shaft, her small form safely above him, looking back long enough to read the farewell that fell from his lips before the inmates overpowered him, crushed him beneath their sheer weight of numbers. He remembered nothing after that except agony.

            Talia blamed herself because it was from her own mouth that the prison population had learned of her true gender, so carefully hidden for ten years from all but her mother, Bane, and the prison doctor. But it had been a mere slip of the tongue in a moment of anger, one—Bane assured her—that he or her mother might have been guilty of allowing. Yet no matter how many times Bane tried to convince Talia of her innocence, she insisted that much stronger about her guilt and the price he had paid for her lapse. She had done so again a week ago, on the first night of her father’s absence, when Bane had awoken with an outcry from one of the nightmares and she had rushed to his bedside to comfort him. Since then, she had snuck into his room every night after the monastery fell into nighttime silence. In prison, they had shared a cell after Melisande’s murder, and since being freed neither had found it easy to sleep without the other’s presence. And though Ducard understood the psychology behind their physical bond, he insisted to his daughter that continuing to share a grown man’s bed was not acceptable behavior for a child, especially a female child. Of course, his words had met with spirited resistance, but Ducard’s flash of anger quickly cowed his daughter. She had sulked for a day, but no more, cautioned against such behavior by Bane. He could not, however, find the resolve to deny her access when she snuggled into his arms these past nights, affording him a few hours of rare, restful slumber.

            As Bane finished his final burst of punches to the bag, he could feel the pain in his face and jaw rising up. The mask’s tiny canister would soon be empty. He needed to return to his room and either remove the mask and inject himself with morphine or at least replenish the canister with its crystalized opiate. Bane frowned. Over the past week, he had worked doggedly to wear and accept the mask, no matter how uncomfortable or unnerving, especially at first. He needed to be ready to leave once his grandfather had been located.

            “There you are.” Choden’s voice turned Bane. “I should have known I would find you here, taking out your frustrations on that poor, defenseless bag.”

            Bane reached for a nearby towel to mop the sweat from his face. If he had been able to, he would have grinned at Choden’s remark. Such drollness from the stoic fellow had been rare up until the past couple of weeks, but now he would occasionally take Bane by surprise with some witticism or a bit of dry humor, though usually when Ducard was absent.

            “I have something for you,” Choden continued. From behind his back, he produced what appeared to be some sort of broad belt, made of thick, stiff material with formidable straps and buckles. He held it up, smiling, as Bane drew near.

            Bane draped the towel over his shoulder. “What is it?”

            “It is a support belt for your back. I made it myself.” Pride brightened his smile.

            Bane took the item, examining it. It was made of Kevlar, a fascinatingly strong material that Ducard had first introduced to him. Straps threaded through fabric channels, connecting from back to front with various buckles and fasteners that could be adjusted for the correct fit. The rear portion was rigid, reinforced by thick leather with the right side a bit wider to offer a larger field of support to his weaker side. Some sort of metal plate within, secured with large rivets, provided the rigidity necessary to limit his movement.

            “You have lost weight and muscle over these weeks,” Choden said. “As you build yourself back up, the brace can be adjusted to accommodate the changes.”

            “Thank you.”

            “Try it on,” the Tibetan urged. “Let us see how it fits you. Yes…just like that so it sits low. Now…” Like a fussing hen, Choden gently pushed away Bane’s hands and adjusted the straps, tightening them until it was impossible to slip a finger between the brace and Bane’s flesh. Then he stepped back to study his work, circling Bane with a thoughtful finger upon his chin. “Yes…not bad, not bad. Now, slowly bend…see if it restricts you where it needs to. Good…now slowly try to rotate left then right.”

            Carefully Bane tried various movements. Though the restriction was regrettable, he immediately noticed a comfort to his back; his muscles felt as if they could rest, the dull ache in his lumbar region easing. The leather used on the inside of the brace, against his skin, was softer than the outside and padded enough to temper the foreign, constricting nature of the brace.

            “It helps,” he said.

            Choden’s smile broadened. “Good…good. You should wear it as much as possible during the day, especially when exercising or lifting, but do not rely on it. You still need to strengthen yourself. The brace is to help you, not something to depend solely upon. Now that you have your mask and this, I think you will progress quickly, as the young usually do.”

            “Thank you, Choden.”

            Unexpected emotion rang in his voice, and it appeared to fluster Choden who waved a hand dismissively and stammered a few self-deprecating words. Unwittingly Bane thought of Doctor Assad back in the pit prison, the one inmate spared from Henri Ducard’s purge. Assad had been Bane’s particular friend for many years in prison and had taught Bane everything he could about practicing medicine and pharmaceuticals. But Bane had been unable to forgive Assad for one tragic mistake—Assad had forgotten to lock Melisande’s cell door one day, an accident that led to Melisande’s brutal rape and murder by the prisoners…and to Assad’s continued life sentence in the pit. Only their former friendship and Assad’s beneficent treatment of Talia saved the physician from suffering the same fate as the rest of the prison population. Perhaps, even now, Assad was dead, either from his drug addiction or from the effluvia from the multitude of corpses left behind by Ducard’s men. Of course their jailers would have eventually discovered the holocaust and removed the bodies and no doubt repopulated the prison with the region’s ever-abundant criminal element. Talia had protested Bane’s exclusion of Assad from those liberated—Temujin and three others who had helped them in various ways—but she could convince neither Bane nor her father to reconsider.

            Since Bane had come to Ducard’s mountain base, Choden had been his medical attendant, seeing to all his physical needs—changing dressings and bandages, administering and monitoring his medicines as well as his nutrition, which until the past two weeks had been strictly intravenous. And while neither man tried to probe into the other’s personal life, a certain bond had formed between them because of Choden’s solicitude and Bane’s determination to recover, a bond of respect and gratitude.

            “Well,” the unexpected voice of Henri Ducard startled both men, “what have we here?”

            Bane turned to find Ducard emerging from the shadows created by the walkway above him. He was dressed still in warm clothes, as if having just come in from outside, his fur-lined coat open, his hands lightly gripping the lapels. His smile was small but amused, his ears glowing red from the cold outside.

            Choden stepped back from Bane, gestured. “Bane approves of my work.”

            “As well he should,” Ducard said, casually circling Bane to study the brace as he removed his coat.

            “How was your journey?” Bane asked, trying to temper his eagerness to hear if Ducard had located Thomas Dorrance.

            “Productive, my boy. Very productive.” Ducard handed his coat to Choden, who bowed and left them alone. “Did my daughter behave herself in my absence? No sneaking out to the glacier, I trust?”

            Bane smiled at the thought of Talia’s many mischievous adventures, several of which she tried to coerce him into joining. “Not that I’m aware, sir.”

            “Good.” Ducard gestured to a nearby bench where they settled, and the lightheartedness drifted away. His eyes took on a steely quality. “Your grandfather was located in Cyprus. He has been living there for the past five years.”

            “Can we get to him?”

            “My men have already extracted him. He is being taken to Jaipur. That is not far from the pit prison.”

            “Extracted him? You mean he did not come willingly?”

            “He did not.”

            “Your men gave him my letter?”

            “Of course.”

            Bane tried to hide his disappointment, knowing such an emotion was counterintuitive, considering what he had planned for his grandfather. Yet somewhere deep inside he had hoped that his blood relative might have come to regret what he had done and perhaps would offer to assist his grandchild as a way to make amends. No, Bane reminded himself, nothing Thomas Dorrance could do could ever make amends for what he had perpetrated; he was just as guilty of killing Bane’s mother as the pneumonia that had claimed her life in prison.

            Ducard’s large hand rested on Bane’s shoulder, drawing Bane’s gaze back to him. “He denies paternity, of course. He thinks you are merely someone hoping to blackmail Edmund Dorrance or ruin his career.”

            “His career?”

            “Yes, your father is a diplomat for Great Britain, just as your grandfather was.”

            This news settled slowly into Bane as he recalled bits and pieces of what his mother had told him over twelve years ago, another lifetime, two lifetimes really—first, his thirteen years as her child, then the twelve years on his own before this new life above ground.

            “It doesn’t make sense,” Bane said. “My mother said Father didn’t want to work for the government. It was one of the things, besides their relationship, that infuriated my grandfather. He wanted his son to follow in his footsteps, to become involved in politics.”

            “Well, it does not appear your father advanced beyond the diplomatic service. Perhaps in rejecting politics he had a way to defy his father. Difficult to say, of course. Perhaps you will be able to discover the truth from your father yourself.” He hesitated. “How did your parents meet, Bane?”

            “My mother’s father was a diplomat, too, so he knew Thomas Dorrance; that’s how my parents first met—when they attended school while living at the embassy in Tel Aviv. But it wasn’t until they were in their twenties that they saw one another again and fell in love. That was when they were stationed in Riyadh. When her father was murdered, whoever was behind it also gained access to his money, so my mother was left with very little, and she had no family to turn to. Thomas Dorrance took her on as a secretary. He didn’t know about her being in love with his son; they kept their relationship from him because my father knew he wouldn’t approve; my grandfather considered my mother beneath their station, like she wasn’t worthy of his son. By then he had arranged for his son to marry the daughter of some sheikh. Mother said it was all about money and politics.”

            “As is the way of the world,” Ducard nodded sagely with barely veiled contempt.

            “My father refused to be manipulated, so he told his father about being in love with my mother. Of course, that infuriated my grandfather. That’s why my mother always suspected that he was behind her kidnapping. She believed it was either his doing or that of the sheikh’s or perhaps both of them. That’s how she ended up in the pit. The men who left her there told her no one would ever look for her because everyone would think she had been killed in a fiery car crash, her body burned beyond recognition. Such a thing would be staged to make the story believable.”

            Ducard frowned. “I’m sorry, Bane. But at least now justice will be served, and how fitting that it should be by your own hand.”

            Trying to hide his uneasiness about venturing back into the world of light, Bane asked, “Will you be with me?”

            “I can be, yes.”

            Bane nodded, glad that the mask at least partially hid his expression of relief. “So you know where my father is, too, then?”

            “He is at the consulate in Riyadh.”

            Bane swallowed. “Did he…did he marry?”

            “Yes, he married the woman your father had chosen for him.”

            His father’s inability to resist his own father’s will disappointed Bane. Yet, Bane chided himself, what else could he have done, thinking that the love of his life was dead? Perhaps grief had robbed him of all hope for love—the way Bane had felt after Melisande’s death—and in despair he had succumbed to his father’s will. Maybe he had even learned to love that Saudi woman, had children with her, Bane’s half-siblings…

            “Are they…are they still married?”

            “Yes.”

            Another hesitation, and he appreciated the fact that Ducard allowed him to ask, that he did not simply blurt all of the information but instead waited to see if Bane wanted the whole truth.

            “Did they have any children?”

            “Yes. A son and a daughter. They are grown now, just a little younger than you.”

            “Where do they live?”

            “The son is in Dubai. The daughter lives in London.”

            Bane nodded, staring vacantly at the punching bag.

            “Do you still wish to meet your father?” Ducard quietly asked.

            “Yes…I must. I promised my mother that I would find him and tell him the truth.”

            “And you still wish to see your grandfather first? It would be best if you do. His disappearance, of course, has raised some alarm. Authorities will be looking for him. While I am confident in the security of his location, there is still a remote chance—”

            “I will see him first,” Bane said in a dull voice, still unable to meet Ducard’s gaze. “I won’t take any chances that he could slip away.”

            “Very well. If you are confident enough in your mask’s ability to allow you to function away from here, then we shall leave in the morning.”

            Bane nodded. His fingers twitched in their habitual, anticipatory way. “Yes,” he said, “I am ready.”


	3. Chapter 3

            Although Bane wore darkened snow goggles, he still squinted against the sunlight bouncing off the surrounding snow-stark mountainsides. He wondered if he would ever grow accustomed to natural light. Or were his eyes permanently flawed after so many years underground?

            He stood just outside the monastery, dwarfed by the sprawling structure which had been built against the leeward side of a mountain. The monastery had a cobbled look, revealing its growth over the years from one central, humble building to a complex constructed in stages, all made of wood, somehow anchored into the rock facings. A marvel of engineering that even now fascinated Bane in both interior and exterior, though his sojourns outside had been few. Now, with his mask delivered, perhaps he would be able to grow more familiar with his outdoor environment…if he returned here.

            He eased his pack to the snowy ground and unzipped his parka to adjust the brace Choden had made. Once satisfied, he zipped the coat up and leaned back against a stanchion to one side of the main entrance to wait. His gloved fingers twitched. Such a foreign feeling to wear layers of heavy clothing. He felt restricted, uneasy. Too warm. He partially unzipped the parka, his blood still thick from years of living in the chill of the pit. The mountain cold did not bother him at all, but he knew unbearable, dry heat awaited him in Jaipur. Could he tolerate the mask in such hot, dusty conditions? Would the apparatus still function properly?

            “I’m ready!” Talia’s voice shrilled, the sound of the heavy door thudding behind her words.

            She tramped resolutely toward him, wearing a parka with the fur-lined hood pushed back from her shining face, a small bundle slung over one shoulder, her boots leaving tracks so much smaller next to his. When she stood before Bane, she beamed up at him and tossed her bundle down next to his pack.

            “Talia.” His muffled voice could not hide his scolding tone. “What are you doing? You know you can’t come.”

            “Yes, I can.”

            “We’ve already gone over this. Your father said no, and rightly so; this journey isn’t for a child to make.”

            “But I’ve made it before—when we came here.”

            “Yes, but that was necessary. This time isn’t.”

            “But I want to go.”

            “I know you do, little mouse, but you can’t.”

            “You sound like Papa,” she grumped.

            Bane sighed. “We will be back before you know it. You need to keep up your studies.”

            “Papa can tutor me on the trip.”

            “It’s too dangerous for you to go.”

            “Why?”

            Bane caught himself. He had not shared his murderous plans with Talia. Although she knew he had killed men in prison, the first had been before her birth, the second when she was only an infant, and the third…well, the third he had never told her about at all. While the murders had been necessary for his survival and hers, the third had troubled him for a long time afterward. Crazy Saul. A harmless old, demented man whose only crime had been knowing Talia’s true name, a name that made the truth of her gender plain. To keep Talia’s identity hidden, Bane had had no choice but to eliminate the elderly prisoner. What made the deed even more difficult was that Saul had once been key to saving Talia’s life when she had fallen gravely ill. It was Saul who had revealed to Bane the name of a prisoner who had been hoarding antibiotics. And if Saul’s part in Talia’s recovery had not been enough to prod Bane’s conscience before and after his murder, then the simple fact that Bane had been the one to unwittingly reveal Talia’s true name to the old man made his guilt even harder to bear.

            “I’m going back to the prison,” Bane divulged, hoping this would deter Talia.

            Her eyes widened. “Why?”

            “I want my grandfather to see where my mother and I lived.”

            “But what if you get caught by the men who run the prison? What if they make you stay there?” Fearful, she took hold of his left hand with both of hers, as if to anchor him there forever.

            “Your father and his men will keep me safe. But I don’t want to put you in that situation. Do you see?”

            “But if Papa’s there, I would be safe, too.”

            “We can’t take that chance, _habibati_. You must stay here.”

            “But I want to meet your papa and your grandpapa.”

            “Maybe you will one day…but not this time.”

            She took his other hand, and now the stubbornness melted away into desperate sadness as she pleaded, “I don’t want you to go; I want us to stay together. It was bad enough when Papa was away, but now you’ll both be gone…and Jin, too.”

            Her mood touched Bane deeply, and he realized everything she had said up until now had been bravado on her part. He crouched in front of her, trying to see her eyes which were now lowered. She sniffed back tears. He tipped up her chin, but still she avoided looking at him.

            “Hey,” he murmured unsuccessfully. “ _Habibati_ …you know we’ll see each other again. I promise.”

            “But what about your papa? What if he won’t let you come back?”

            Bane drew her into his embrace, held her tight. “Nothing and no one could ever keep me from you. Do you hear? No one.”

            The monastery’s heavy door opened again, and Henri Ducard and Temujin emerged. When Ducard saw Talia, his low brow hovered even lower.

            “I hope you are here simply to wish us farewell, Talia.”

            Startled, she stepped back from Bane but held onto his hand. Hastily she swiped her other hand across her eyes and straightened her back. “Please, Papa, can’t I come?”

            A question instead of a demand, Bane noted. Yes, she was beginning to learn her place.

            Ducard held out his hand toward her, beckoned her close. “You already know the answer to that.”

            Talia returned her gaze to Bane as she said, “But we’ve never been apart.”

            “Of course we have,” Bane gently reminded. “Remember when I broke my back?”

            “Yes, but you didn’t have a choice; you had to leave.”

            “I don’t have a choice this time either,” he insisted. “Remember, I have a promise to my mother to keep.”

            Her lips twisted in surrender.

            “Now be a good girl and say good-bye to your father.”

            “Can’t _you_ stay here with me, Jin?”

            “No, little one. I must keep Bane out of trouble, especially since you will not be along to do it.” He offered a soothing grin. “Don’t look so glum. The others will keep you entertained while we are gone.”

            She gave a small, resigned sigh. But before she would go to her father, she gently touched Bane’s mask, her index finger sliding in a horizontal line as if to caress his lips, a familiar, endearing gesture that she had bestowed every evening in prison when they bid each other good night. Talia’s lack of aversion toward the mask greatly pleased and relieved Bane, made it easier to bear his inability to feel her sweet stroke. Then she gave him a sad smile and shuffled through the snow to her father.

            Ducard chuckled at her attempt to make them feel sorry for her. He picked her up with no effort at all and sat her upon his hip, her ever-lengthening hair tousled by the breeze that crept down the mountain.

            “I am sorry to leave you so soon after my return. But Bane will be safer if I am with him. Do you understand?”

            “Yes, Papa.” Absently Talia played with the collar of his parka before looking at him. “You promise to bring him back to me?”

            “Of course. You mustn’t worry. You must be brave, like your mother was brave. Remember, she is always with you.”

            Talia nodded, hesitated, then slipped her arms around her father’s neck and tightly embraced him.

#

            The journey south began necessarily on foot. Bane, while having grown accustomed to the thinner mountain air while at the monastery, found breathing to be a more laborious endeavor when exerting himself in this new way, especially because of the mask. The heavy pack, which included a disassembled assault rifle, wearied his back and shoulders, even with Choden’s brace. His weeks of convalescence had much reduced his strength and stamina. But he did not complain, and he allowed help only after stumbling and falling multiple times and thus slowing them down. Ducard and Temujin each took some of the items from Bane’s pack to lighten his load, though he insisted that they should not burden themselves.

            After a short night of exhausted slumber in shelter tents, the trio pushed on to a village. There Ducard took them to a farm where, concealed in a barn, a vehicle awaited. As Ducard spoke briefly with the farmer and money exchanged hands, Bane climbed into the Land Rover and immediately fell asleep, stretched across the rear seat, using his pack for a pillow.

            He awoke a couple of hours later, eager to see more of this new world through which they traveled. The mountains still dominated the landscape, but the lack of snow upon their peaks bespoke of a lower altitude. The road was rough, and he saw few vehicles; those they encountered were old, well-used small trucks. More often he saw carts pulled by rugged, hairy ponies, their drivers equally rugged, casting disinterested glances at the passing Land Rover.

            While asleep, Bane had been vaguely aware of conversation between Ducard and Temujin, but the two men had fallen relatively silent. Temujin seemed particularly morose now, and Bane remembered the evening in prison when Temujin had told him the story of how he had come to live in southern Bhutan and of his marriage.

            “Are we anywhere near where you used to live, Jin?” he asked.

            The Mongol stared through the windshield, grunted. “Yes. About fifty kilometers.”

            Bane sensed the man had no desire to discuss those days, once idyllic but eventually destroyed by the murder of his wife by mountain bandits. It was his search for her killers that had drawn him away from Henri Ducard’s organization, a search that eventually saw three of them dead by Temujin’s own hand. The fourth remained at large.

            Ducard, too, seemed to perceive Temujin’s train of thought. He glanced once at the Mongol before saying, “Don’t worry, my friend. Justice will be served for your wife. As I told you, the trail grows warm.”

            Temujin simply nodded, his countenance dark and closed.

            Another show of gratitude from Ducard for Talia’s escape from prison, this promise to locate the last bandit, for it was Temujin who had revealed to Talia while in prison information about her father. Shortly after he had arrived at the monastery, Bane had learned of Ducard’s search for the surviving killer. Temujin claimed it was all that kept him tied to the mountain base, though Bane suspected the Mongol had developed a certain loyalty to him and Talia, something even beyond his friendship with Ducard.

            Much later in the day, they crossed the unguarded, remote border into India, leaving the high mountains behind. By nightfall they arrived at an airfield—a single runway where one small plane awaited. When the Land Rover was spotted, the twin engines of the sleek jet whined into life. Bane stared at the aircraft, amazed and excited.

            “Did we fly in that when we left the prison?” he asked.

            “No,” Ducard responded, driving straight onto the airstrip, never slowing the vehicle. “I’m afraid our modes of transportation on that trip were a bit less…luxurious.” He glanced sidelong at Temujin with a small, amused smile. The Mongol smiled back, his black mood of earlier in the day having slipped away many miles ago.

            The interior of the jet was one of comfort. Soft, tan-colored leather seats, televisions, a full galley…just a few of the amenities available.

            Once buckled into his seat (after Temujin explained the purpose of the seatbelt and how to fasten and unfasten it), Bane was startled by the appearance of a young man at his elbow. An Indian, who looked younger than he. Dressed in some sort of uniform.

            “A pillow for you, sir?” The attendant’s question in English almost strangled at the end when he caught full sight of Bane’s mask. The attendant’s eyes widened in shock, but he quickly recovered and forced a sickly smile, a small pillow in his hand.

            Overcome with unexpected self-consciousness, Bane mumbled, “No,” shaking his head in case the attendant could not hear his answer. He stared at his knees.

            “If you reach down on the other side of your seat, sir, you will feel the controls. Once we are airborne, you may wish to adjust the seat for your comfort by using those buttons. But please keep your seatback erect for takeoff and landing.”

            “Th—thank you.”

            “Once we are at cruising altitude, I will serve dinner for you gentlemen.”

            Bane glared up at him. Was this boy making game of his debility?

            The attendant swallowed, again forced a smile. “Mr. Ducard informed us of your…special nutritional requirements, rest assured.” As if eager to be quit of Bane’s presence, the attendant turned to Ducard seated across the cabin from Bane, but Ducard was using an onboard telephone, a conversation Bane could not hear over the whir of the engines.

            Bane shoved aside his mixture of anger and embarrassment and turned his interest to the window beside his seat. He watched the landscape pass by as they taxied across the tarmac. Then, as the jet sped down the runway, accelerating at a heart-stopping pace, Bane forgot about the attendant’s reaction to him and instead marveled at the natural forces pressing him back against the butter-soft seat, a smile trying to form beneath his mask but forcibly banished for the pain it would cause him. Once aloft, he would replenish the mask’s drug, but for now he sat still, hands gripping the armrests, his heart racing as the jet lifted skyward, and he tried to believe that he was indeed flying, flying like the distant birds he had envied beyond the mouth of the prison shaft. Perhaps one day he could learn to fly a craft such as this.

            After a modest meal, complete with wine, Ducard and Temujin drifted to sleep. Bane, however, could not sleep, no matter how sated by what he had been able to consume—but no wine, not in conjunction with the drugs—for he was too animated. Of course he could take one of the sedatives that he carried with him, but he already despised his need for any medication; he did not want to take anything more than absolutely necessary. He wanted his wits about him as much as possible, to experience and absorb all of the new sights and sounds on this journey.

            He wandered about the plane for a few minutes, examining everything he could. When he first left his seat, the attendant appeared from behind a bulkhead at the front of the cabin to ask if he needed assistance of any kind: Did the young gentleman desire earphones for music or perhaps he wondered where the lavatory was? When Bane insisted he required nothing, he made sure he did not look away from the attendant but instead held his gaze, as if daring the attendant to reveal any revulsion he might be feeling. It pleased Bane when the man averted his own gaze.

            Once back in his seat, Bane stared out the window into the darkness where below him a carpet of smoky clouds made it easy to believe the earth had vanished, while above him the black, crystalline sky displayed its constellations in all their glory. So close! Or so it seemed after admiring this same night sky from far beneath the earth’s surface. How Melisande would love to see the stars thusly!

            At the thought of her, Bane went to an aft compartment where his belongings had been stowed. From his pack, he removed a blanket in which lay the Zastava M70. Carefully he unwrapped the weapon and stowed its pieces back in the pack. The blanket he drew close into his arms, embraced it, shut his eyes, thought of Melisande. She had arrived in prison with the blanket—colorful, fringed, hand woven with floral patterns as well as diamond shapes and square designs. She had treasured it dearly, for it had been a gift from Henri Ducard. And since her death Bane valued it beyond all things because it had belonged to her.

            He returned to his seat with the blanket. A quick glance toward Ducard showed the big man still fast asleep, his seat reclined almost horizontally.

            Bane settled back into his chair and reclined enough to relax, still able to see the dark sky with its winking pinpricks of light. For a moment he hesitated, wondering if he should have left the blanket in the pack, afraid that using it now would only remind Ducard that he had it. Thus far, Ducard had not mentioned reclaiming the blanket, but whenever he had come into Bane’s room, his gaze touched upon it at least once where it always lay on the bed. Bane figured that Ducard wanted the blanket, the only tangible evidence of Melisande’s existence, but Bane could not bring himself to surrender it. He justified its possession by telling himself that Ducard had Talia to memorialize his wife. And, besides, he deserved _something_ lasting for the years of friendship and protection that he had provided for the man’s wife and child. A reward. Surely a blanket was a small price for Ducard to pay for all that.

            Always handling the blanket with great care, Bane unfolded it and covered himself with it. Of course, he was much too tall for it to reach the length of him; indeed, it draped only from his neck to his knees. But he did not care. Its touch, its warmth made him smile beneath the mask, no matter how much the expression pained him. He only wished the mask did not rob him of feeling the fabric against his face. Though the drug’s vapor had very little odor, it still tainted some of the smells that came to him, including the smell of the blanket. Hopefully this could eventually be remedied by the drug’s composition being re-engineered.

            When he closed his eyes at last, he breathed deeply, tried to remember Melisande’s scent from all those years ago as he drew the blanket nearly over the mask. Just before he drifted off, he imagined that she was beside him and, for but a moment, he succeeded in recalling the way she and her blanket had smelled when she had first come to the prison—clean and sweet, like the flowers blooming in the monastery’s solarium.


	4. Chapter 4

            Twenty-five years spent underground had provided Bane with night vision far superior to that of men born above ground. Yet because his surroundings were now so completely foreign to him, everything appeared as a confusing blur as the vehicle sped through one of Jaipur’s slums in the dead of night. The dark tinting of the Mitsubishi’s side windows further impeded Bane’s curious scrutiny. The narrow, rutted streets were nearly deserted. Occasionally the reflective glow from the eyes of cats or dogs flashed in the fall of the vehicle’s headlights. Ducard nearly ran over a goat once and had to blare the truck’s horn at an indolent cow to get the beast to meander out of their way.

            When Ducard finally halted the vehicle, he growled, “Stay here,” before quickly departing. In two strides he disappeared into a one-story building. Within two minutes he emerged with two darkly-clad, armed men close behind, flanking a hooded prisoner. All moved with smooth speed except the prisoner—bent over, hands bound behind his back—who walked with a dust-disturbing shuffle, a heavy reluctance. As Ducard climbed back into the driver’s seat, one of the armed men and the prisoner struggled into the rear seat. The other man jumped in beside Bane. The idling vehicle lurched into a quick acceleration.

            No one spoke; the prisoner attempted to be heard but was muffled, no doubt by a gag beneath the black head cover. The gunman beside the prisoner jabbed him with the barrel of his weapon, snarled in English for him to be silent.

            Bane sat, paralyzed, staring at the rear of Temujin’s seat. He wanted to turn around and face his grandfather but could not move. There was no point, he reminded himself, not yet anyway. Ducard had instructed him to say nothing to the man until they stopped for the night. British authorities still searched for their missing national, and here in a large city the danger of being intercepted by British or Indian agents was much greater than in the remote reaches beyond Jaipur. And if Bane revealed his identity too early, Thomas Dorrance—if rescued now—would no doubt ensure that Bane ended up right back in prison.

            The fingers of Bane’s right hand twitched in agitation. Amidst the mixed emotions that battered him, the overwhelming desire to snap the neck of his mother’s executioner, his jailer, outweighed all others. But he cautioned himself to stick to the plan, to force his grandfather to see the hell to which he had condemned them. Yet there was a small seed of fear in Bane, fear that once he saw the face of someone of his own flesh and blood, especially one as aged now as Crazy Saul, that his resolve would fail him. Would his grandfather plead for his life or would he be defiant? Although Bane certainly detected fear in the prisoner, the man’s outcries against the gag had also revealed anger. Of course a man so used to power and opulence his entire life would find captivity an unthinkable outrage against his lofty rights.

            Bane could not help but wonder how different their lives would be if his mother had been allowed to marry Edmund Dorrance, if he had been born into the Dorrances’ wealth as an accepted family member. Where would he be now? Would he have gone into government service like his father? Would Thomas Dorrance love and revere his grandson? Ducard had said that his grandfather had denied his claim of paternity. Would he change his mind once he came face to face with his own bloodline? And the mask…would his grandfather view it the way the flight attendant had or would he feel pity? What if, after all Bane would show him in the pit, his grandfather had a change of heart?

            Bane’s hands balled into fists. No…any man who could do what Thomas Dorrance had done to the woman his own son had loved certainly did not have the capacity or desire to change his heart, to feel pity. _And_ , Bane told himself, _neither do I_.

            A silent hour and a half later, perhaps around three in the morning, they arrived at a small village, dark and serene except for the stray barking of dogs. The man sitting beside Bane got out first and hurried into a low building made of earthen brick. A moment later a light winked on in one of the front windows, and the man returned, moving to the rear to escort the prisoner inside behind Ducard, Bane, and the others.

            An Indian man speaking Hindi greeted Ducard and led the way down a short hall. From behind one closed door that they passed, Bane heard children whispering with concern, reminding him of Talia. Then a woman’s soft words silenced the voices.

            Their host halted at the end of the hallway and motioned to rooms on either side. Ducard thanked him, then the Indian brushed between the armed men to return to his own room across from where Bane had heard the children.

            “Bane, you and Temujin will sleep in this room with me,” Ducard said. “The others will be across from us.”

            As Temujin entered ahead of them, eager for sleep, Bane said to Ducard, “I want to speak with him.”

            “Would you not prefer to rest first?”

            “No.”

            Ducard nodded to his men, who hustled their prisoner into the adjacent room, then he took Bane’s pack from him. “Do you want me to accompany you?”

            “There’s no need.”

            “Very well.” Ducard hesitated then reminded him, “Tell him nothing about us. Mind yourself; anger can often lead us to divulge things that should be kept hidden. Don’t let him trick you into saying what you don’t intend to say. Understand?”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “My men will remain in the room with you. Heed their counsel, if given.”

            “Yes, sir.”

            With a tight, sustaining smile, Ducard nodded and left him alone, partially closing the door to his room behind him.

            Bane remained in the hallway for a long moment, gathering his courage, tempering his desire for violence, cautioning himself against being swayed by anything the old bastard might tell him in order to save his own skin.

            Once in the room he found one of the guards already asleep on a woven mat. The other sat on a separate mat, facing the hooded prisoner. The guard’s face—European perhaps—was impassive, never looking away from his charge, who sat in a corner, head bowed as if exhausted. Bane shuffled toward him, faltered, then sank to his haunches in front of his grandfather. He lifted his arm to remove the hood, hesitated, realized his hand was shaking. To hide this weakness, he snatched off the hood.

            Thomas Dorrance gave a tiny gasp and squinted in the low lamplight. A thick mane of gray hair bordered his worn face, a face with a tapered chin like Bane’s, dramatically arched eyebrows, a long nose, and a beard and mustache that appeared to have been fastidiously groomed prior to captivity, the mustache still bearing some of the man’s original light brown hair color. Dorrance blinked in an effort to adjust his vision, then shrank away in revulsion from what he saw before him, agape, faded blue eyes wide.

            “Wh—who are you?” Dorrance grimaced. “ _What_ …are you?”

            Bane scowled. “I am what you made me, old man.”

            His grandfather’s initial fear faded quickly as he studied the mask. His eyes were cold, so cold that Bane knew warmth had rarely visited there during his lifetime.

            “So,” his grandfather spoke with disdain, those eyebrows mocking, “you are the one, aren’t you? The one responsible for my kidnapping. Claiming to be my grandson. I have but one grandson and you aren’t fit to untie his shoes.”

            “I _am_ your grandson, though it pains me to say it.”

            “Prison dregs; that’s all you are, boy. A thug looking to extort my family.”

            “I want nothing from you,” Bane growled. “You were brought here for one purpose and one purpose only.”

            His grandfather tried to hide his surprise at Bane’s claim to desire nothing monetary. Of course, Bane reflected, the man knew only of money and power; he could comprehend nothing else.

            “In the morning,” Bane continued, “we will take you to my home, my mother’s home for thirteen years before her death, and as you know it wasn’t death in an accident. There was nothing accidental about it, was there?” Bane grabbed the front of his grandfather’s shirt, the fabric tightening against the man’s shoulders as Bane’s fist clenched, no longer trembling. The man’s utter spite and selfishness even in the face of captivity and possible death made Bane hate him even more. “She died because of you.”

            “I had nothing to do with your whore of a mother’s death.”

            Bane’s other hand gripped him now, pulled him forward then slammed him back against the wall where he pinned him. The guard continued to look on stoically, gun in hand, as if waiting for Bane’s command to shoot their prisoner. Bane shoved his face close to his grandfather, the mask touching the man’s nose. The first flare of fear appeared in those frigid eyes.

            “If you are such a great and powerful man,” Bane sneered, “then why deny what you did? Are you ashamed? Afraid? Well, you should be afraid, you bastard, because you’re going to pay for what you did to us. Then I’m going to tell your son what you did to the woman he loved.”

            His grandfather tried to regain his composure, but Bane could see through the veneer. “My son won’t believe you anymore than I do.”

            “He will believe me once I’m through with him.”

            The hint of possible violence to his son had more of an effect on Dorrance than Bane had expected. A tightness in his facial muscles betrayed his concern. “Do what you will with me, but leave my son out of this. He knew nothing about your mother’s disappearance except what he was told.”

            “So you admit your hand in her death?”

            “Her death? No. Her removal from my son’s life—yes. Look at you! What would you know of the real world and how it turns? If your mother had truly cared for Edmund, she would have never taken up with him. She was a selfish girl who needed to be saved after her father’s death. She was nothing more than a gold digger. She didn’t love my son; she loved his money and the power that would come to him through my efforts.”

            With fresh fury, Bane drove him against the wall again. “You’re a liar! You know nothing about what she felt. She loved him. She died because of him…because of you.”

            His grandfather’s eyes, desperate now, flicked toward the guard, as if searching for rescue.

            “She didn’t care about your money,” Bane continued, reluctantly letting go of the man for fear that he would kill him here and now, before he could make him suffer. “My father didn’t care about it either. They loved each other; they wanted to be together. That’s all that mattered to them.”

            “You are a foolish, naïve child,” Dorrance said, recovering some of his courage now that he was no longer in Bane’s grip. “You believed your mother’s fairy tales. Well, I suppose a boy would, in your circumstances. But I know my son. He came to understand the wisdom behind my plans for him. What do you think he will do if you live to tell him your fairy tales? He is married still to the woman whom he wed after your mother was removed from his world, a woman who is deserving of him. One way or another, your mother is dead, and that is all she will be to Edmund—a dead memory. So what purpose is there in telling him about it?”

            “He needs to know what you did, what you really are.”

            Dorrance gave a dry laugh. “My son has no illusions about me, boy.”

            “Then you shouldn’t concern yourself with what I will tell him,” Bane said, calling his bluff. “What decent man wouldn’t be horrified to learn what you did to her…to us? Or is my father not a decent man? Maybe he is like you now.”

            “You think my son will believe what you tell him, that he will just accept that a freak like you is indeed his blood, and take you under his wing after all these years? Even with a blood test proving any such connection, he will have nothing to do with you, boy. He would never shame his wife in such a way or admit to her his own foolishness as a youth. No, not to her and certainly not to her father.” A small, confident smile brought some life to his visage. “And if her father learns about your claim, rest assured, you masked horror, he will destroy you as quickly as I will.”

            “We shall see,” Bane said, getting to his feet. He stared down at his grandfather. “Enjoy your sleep, old man. It’s the last bit of peace you will ever have.”


	5. Chapter 5

            The next morning—a blazing hot dawn shimmering on the horizon—they approached the pit prison with great caution. Half a mile away, Ducard halted the vehicle in the protection of a small canyon and sent one of his men ahead to reconnoiter. The others waited, silent, Thomas Dorrance once again bound, gagged, and hooded but this time sitting next to Bane.

            As he waited, Bane grew ever more uneasy yet he did his best to hide his unrest, remaining in the vehicle, though the energy building within him demanded that he pace. He clasped his hands together to keep his fingers still, breathing slow and deep, taking in the drug which he had just replenished in anticipation of the return to his birthplace. Home. Yes, he had once called the prison home, the way normal people would refer to their familial house. After all, he had known nothing else. And if the sad truth be told, it was there among unending hardship that he had experienced his happiest moments in life, for it was within those dark stone walls that he had shared his mother’s life and had come to fall in love with Melisande, and it was there that he had first heard Talia’s newborn cries. But now…there was nothing there for him, a cold, different world.

            He longed for Talia’s soothing presence, the joyful, musical sound of her laughter, the beauty of her eyes when she smiled at him. How would she feel about returning to the pit? Would she have more courage than he? Or would her palms be clammy with sweat as his were now? The fear that fought to take hold of him was not simply fear of the pit, of being trapped there once again, but fear of separation from her…and from Henri Ducard and all that he symbolized. And there was still his own father to think of as well as his promise to his mother. Perhaps, Bane considered, he should have gone to his father before bringing his grandfather here.

            At last Ducard’s man returned to report that no one was in the vicinity of the prison. Not surprising, as Bane had told them, for the only time anyone came to the mouth of the shaft was when a new prisoner arrived or when the prison was resupplied roughly every other month. Considering that Ducard and his assassins had killed every prisoner except Doctor Assad a little over two months ago when they had rescued Bane, the pit no doubt had a small population, for that limited amount of time would not have allowed for many new arrivals.

            The Mitsubishi wasted no time covering the dusty distance to the yawning pit. Once there, Ducard pulled Bane’s grandfather from the vehicle and removed the hood, tossing it back into the truck as Bane exited. Their prisoner squinted at his surroundings, and the remoteness of their location devoured what little hope had enlivened his expression with the removal of the hood. His fair skin would not take long to burn in this furnace of a wasteland. His eyes trailed over the ancient stones built up around the rim of the shaft, giving the appearance of an enormous well. Ah, but at the bottom of this well, there was no refreshing drink available; what water was there could never be called appealing. It sustained life, little more.

            “What is this place?” Dorrance asked suspiciously, eying the large coils of rope kept at the mouth of the shaft for raising and lowering supplies and men.

            “You don’t recognize the place where you condemned my mother to die?” Bane gave him a rough shove toward the stone walls. “Of course you wouldn’t. You probably had no real idea where your lackeys had taken her, did you? Just so much trash to be thrown into any God forsaken dustbin.”

            As Ducard and Temujin retrieved the rappelling harnesses and ropes from the truck, Bane pushed his grandfather again, this time up against the stones themselves where Dorrance braced himself away from the pit’s maw. The old man had paled considerably, and true fear finally overtook his arrogance. For a moment Bane thought his grandfather was about to beg for his life, but he did not give him the chance; Bane spun him about and forced him to look down into the shaft, one hand at the back of his neck, the other counterbalancing to keep him from falling in.

            “Look, damn you. Look!”

            “What is it you want me to see?” Dorrance asked, his voice reedy with panic.

            “It’s where you sent her; it’s where you killed her.”

            “I see no prison. I’ve killed no one. Please…I beg of you…let me go.”

            “You can’t see it?” Bane mocked. “Well, then I shall take you down so you can.”

            Temujin drew Dorrance back from the stones, freed him from his bindings so he could strap a harness around him. Ducard did the same for Bane.

            “You’re out of your mind,” Dorrance babbled. “I’m an old man. I can’t climb down there; it must be over a hundred meters deep.”

            “Indeed it is,” Bane said sarcastically. “But have no fear—I will help you.”

            “You mean to leave me down there, don’t you?”

            “You have no idea what I mean to do, old man. Now must we gag you again so I don’t have to listen to you bleating like a goat all the way down?”

            Dorrance reached for Temujin. “Please…you can’t let him do this.”

            Temujin gave him a stony look, said nothing as he finished tightening the straps, making no effort to allow Dorrance comfort.

            Dorrance grabbed for Ducard who shrugged him off. “Please, sir…”

            “Temujin will accompany you,” Ducard said to Bane, as if Dorrance did not exist.

            “He doesn’t need to.”

            “You don’t know what might be waiting for you down there. Another gun will not hurt. Temujin will go.” Ducard said it in a way that barred further discussion. “If we run into trouble up here, we will fire warning shots. Don’t waste time getting Dorrance back up here with you.”

            “We won’t,” Temujin assured with a pointed glance at Bane.

            “No,” Dorrance pleaded. “You can’t leave me down there. I will pay you…whatever sum you require—”

            “Shut up,” Bane said, another shove silencing Dorrance and nearly knocking him to the ground.

            The large ropes coiled upon the lip of the shaft were anchored through square channels in the masonry. It was through these channels that the three ropes were secured for Bane, Dorrance, and Temujin. With their rifles slung over their shoulders, first Temujin then Bane began the descent, followed by their prisoner who was eased down by Ducard while his men kept their eyes upon the surrounding horizon.

            As he descended, Bane’s booted feet fended him away from the familiar gray wall. Through his concentration, memories of the climbs he had made returned to him with brutal clarity. The first had been as a mere boy of fourteen; he had not gotten far up the shaft before weakening and losing his grip. The second time had been years later when he had made it nearly to the top, standing upon one of the ledges just short of the opening. But when he had to leap from one stone platform to the next, his reach had failed him, and he had plunged downward. A terrifying descent that should have terminated at the end of the safety rope. Yet when he had reached that limit, the rope—sabotaged by one of Bane’s enemies in the prison—gave way, and Bane had crashed downward into the pool at the bottom of the shaft. He had suffered multiple injuries, the worst to his spine. Those injuries would have been the death of him if not for the help of the prison doctor and Melisande, who had the resources and contacts to have him temporarily removed from the pit and taken to a clinic where surgery was performed. That had been his one and only taste of life beyond the darkness before Ducard rescued him. The experience had greatly unsettled Bane and made him realize how ill-equipped he was to live in such an environment and among such people. He had received little kindness while above ground, and while there all he had thought about was returning to Melisande and Talia, his true family.

            Thomas Dorrance said little during the descent, either because of Bane’s threats or simply out of fear, his bony hands clutching the rope and the harness as if terrified one or the other would soon give way. Bane remained just below him, steadying him when needed.

            Farther and farther away from the light. Halfway down Bane heard a shout from below and saw a prisoner pointing up at them as he called to someone else. Soon a second prisoner entered the shaft to see what had caught his companion’s attention.

            “Are those convicts?” Dorrance asked uneasily.

            “Who else would they be?” Bane sardonically said. “Dregs, as you said, like me.”

            “Will they harm us?”

            “They won’t harm me or my friend. Hard telling what they’ll do to you.”

            “But—but you will protect me?”

            Bane made no reply. Another prisoner entering the shaft caught his eye. He was low enough now to recognize the inmate’s shape, his gait, though it was much slower than the days before an addiction to opiates. Doctor Assad. The middle aged physician stood not far from the other two prisoners, a shading hand raised in an effort to see the detail of those descending against the distant glare of sky. The sight of him stirred mixed feelings in Bane, roused more old memories. He recalled the night his mother had died when Assad had consoled him; no one else had cared about Bane’s grief, but Assad had helped him navigate the overwhelming sense of loss. Now Bane cautioned himself against sympathy for the man, for what he had once been. To combat any empathy for the physician, Bane revisited that horrible day when Assad had forgotten to lock the door after examining Talia, and prisoners had rushed into Melisande’s cell. Never could Bane forget her screams. Never could he forgive the doctor for his criminal lapse.

            A broad ledge protruded from the stone walls, stretching around the circumference of the shaft just above a large _bawdi_. Bane knew every inch of that stepwell and the murky pool at the base of the shaft. On all four sides of the _bawdi_ , series of steps led ever downward, a pattern of stairs that forced anyone descending to continuously work back and forth, first one way then the opposite instead of direct, a pattern that gave the walls of the stepwell a diamond pattern. The shaft provided the only source of natural illumination in the prison, so inmates regularly came there in search of light and what little warmth might trickle down from the arid surface world. Back in the corridors and cells, guttering oil lamps or braziers within individual cells provided light.

            As his feet touched down upon the ledge, he reached above him to slow his grandfather. He easily detected the man’s trembling. Dorrance clutched Bane’s arm as if afraid he might fall the rest of the way, and he continued to grip his loose sleeve once he touched down. The old man’s attention swiftly turned to the prisoners who drew near. Two others appeared from a nearby corridor, all amazed by what they saw.

            Assad spoke, “I never expected to see you again.”

            “And you won’t see me for long.” Bane glanced briefly at him, saw dark eyes that were surprisingly clear, eyes that could not conceal a glimmer of hope that perhaps his young friend had had a change of heart and had returned to rescue him.

            “Temujin,” Assad called up to the Mongol. “I am glad to see you well, my friend.”

            Temujin, who had none of Bane’s prejudices against the physician, grinned. “I missed this place so much, I thought I would return for a visit.”

            “And who did you bring with you?” Assad gestured to Dorrance.

            “You know him…at least by name,” Bane said with a bite to his words. When Assad studied the harried prisoner closer, Bane continued, “He’s the man who condemned my mother.”

            Shock stole some of the color from Assad’s countenance. “You can’t mean to leave him here.”

            Bane did not respond. Instead he guided Dorrance toward the edge of the ledge. “I will lower you down.”

            His grandfather’s frightened gaze slid along the hostile faces of the other prisoners nearby, watching and murmuring among themselves, their wary eyes upon the guns. Then he turned back to Bane. “Please…I beg of you—”

            “You can beg all you want; it won’t do you any good. Now hurry up.” With his hands upon Dorrance’s shoulders, he pushed him down to a seated position upon the ledge with legs dangling, fingers still clutching Bane’s sleeve. When Assad started to step closer to help, raising his arms toward Dorrance, Bane barked, “Step back,” as he swept the rifle barrel from Assad to the other inmates, who quickly obeyed.

            Bane’s pulse raced. The way the prisoners stared at his mask irritated him, stoked his anger until it encompassed all of them. He took his restless finger off the trigger, told himself to focus on why he had come here. Together he and Temujin lowered Dorrance to the top of the stepwell. His grandfather disappeared beneath the ledge’s overhang, as if to hide in its shadow until Bane and Temujin joined him.

            Once below the ledge, Bane roughly pulled his grandfather close and unhooked the line from his harness, then freed himself as well. He shoved the old man to the right, gripping Dorrance’s shoulder, the rifle in his left hand.

            “Move,” he said, the mask making the word a distorted growl.


	6. Chapter 6

            “Where are you taking me?” Dorrance asked.

            “To show you where my mother lived,” Bane said, “where she spent every single day of her last thirteen years.”

            As Bane led his prisoner away, Temujin remained behind to guard their lines. From over his shoulder, Bane heard Assad ask the Mongol about Talia.

            Such a reminder of the child distracted Bane, left him missing Talia greatly, an emotion so strong here where they had lived that it momentarily wiped away all other emotions, even the anger. So he forced his attention back to Dorrance whose eyes continuously rolled in fear at the foreign surroundings, his jaw loose with shock, the same expression Bane had seen on the countless faces of new prisoners brought here to suffer and die over the years. None of those men—nor anyone before them—had ever successfully climbed from the pit, and like all those inmates Thomas Dorrance could easily understand why as his gaze trailed longingly back up the shaft.

            Bane and his mother had been fortunate; their cell had been on the highest level of the prison, facing the stepwell. The only time such close proximity to the shaft was regrettable was during monsoon season when the nearly continuous fall of rain made the dank environment even more oppressively wet and cold. But at least their location allowed his mother to see natural light. Often she would sit close to the front of their cell, looking up the shaft (but not so close that passing inmates could reach the prison’s only woman and the target of their daily crudities). Bane had many recollections of her sitting thusly when he had awoken from afternoon naps, her thoughts obviously far, far away, often upon his father. How incredibly brave and enduring she had been!

            When Bane reached his old cell, he thought again of Talia. She and Melisande had lived next to him until Melisande’s death, then Bane had brought Talia to reside with him. For a moment the musicality of her laughter played in his ears, and he almost smiled as he remembered her as a toddler, how she used to call him “Ba-ba” until she could later successfully pronounce his name. Sometimes, in private moments, she still used Ba-ba as a term of endearment.

            The cell was uninhabited now, though it was obvious that the handful of inmates (all who by then had come to the shaft to investigate the strangers and their motives) lived on this level of the prison. The door was unlocked and slightly ajar. Bane swung it wide and shoved his grandfather inside the space which was barely over ten feet square. Dorrance quickly rushed back toward him and the door, but the raised gun barrel halted him.

            “This was it,” Bane said coldly. “This is where you put her. This is where she died.”

            Dorrance struggled to regain some composure. “How…did she die?”

            Bane knew the question was insincere; Dorrance gave not a damn how his victim had died. He was merely hoping to find some way into his grandson’s good graces, some way to preserve his miserable hide. Bane decided to play along, to let the man think that perhaps there was some hope for survival, for clemency, the way he and his mother used to hope that one day they would either escape or that Edmund Dorrance would rescue them.

            “She died of pneumonia,” Bane told him flatly.

            “Pneumonia? You had no medicine?”

            “The prison’s medical stores weren’t plentiful. They often ran out between resupplies.”

            “Who—who runs this place?”

            “My understanding is that the prison is maintained—if you can call it that—by several men. Some more powerful than others, some more ruthless. But all who need a place to punish and silence their enemies or those that they feel betrayed them in one way or another.”

            He thought of Melisande’s father, a warlord of sorts whose ancestral home was not too far distant from the prison; Bane had often wondered if her father was one of those who controlled the pit prison. Talia’s existence remained, to this day, hidden from her grandfather for fear that he might try to eliminate her in order to keep her from any sort of financial claim or from causing a scandal within his family. Yet Bane had a feeling that her grandfather would soon learn from Henri Ducard that there was a price to be paid for what he had done to Melisande after her marriage to Ducard, a marriage originally concealed from Melisande’s father, for the warlord had forbade his daughter from marrying an infidel. When he had found out, he had condemned Ducard to the pit, but Melisande had taken his place, unbeknownst to her husband.

            “Did your injuries occur here?” Dorrance asked, gesturing to his face. “That is why you wear the mask, isn’t it—your injuries? Or were you…born that way?”

            Bane scowled, breathing deeply of the opiate. These were questions that he knew others would ask of him throughout the rest of his life. Perhaps he should accept that, beginning right now; however, coming from this man, Bane knew the inquiry was merely another stalling tactic, a way to defuse his inner rage. But his grandfather was a fool to think anything could ever lessen his hatred.

            “I was not born this way,” Bane replied curtly, then took his grandfather by the collar and ushered him out of the cell.

            “Where are we going?”

            “You’ll see.”

            Bane took him to the lowest level of the prison, to the deepest and darkest of all the corridors. With no prisoners inhabiting the cells that they passed, the passageway’s lanterns had no reason to be lit. The farther they progressed, the more force it took to keep Dorrance moving.

            “I can’t see,” Dorrance protested. “How can you?”

            “I don’t need to see. I lived here twenty-five years, old man. I know every inch of this place, the dark and the not-so-dark. Does a mole need vision to find his way along his own tunnels? That’s what you reduced me to...or tried to: an animal. I’m taking you to see where such animals were punished.”

            “Punished? Wasn’t being sent here punishment enough?”

_Ah, yes_ , Bane thought, _now you are beginning to understand_. But he said nothing more until he reached the end of the corridor. There he used the small flashlight that he had brought from the surface to shine upon the stone paving.

            “What—what is that?” Dorrance’s question quivered in the air.

            “It’s where I lived for two weeks after I killed a man; the second man I killed, that is. The first time I was just a boy, and because I killed in self-defense I was granted clemency. But the second time, I killed for revenge. I knew what the punishment would be, but I didn’t care.”

            Dorrance stared at the metal grating. “Where does it lead to?”

            “Open it.”

            “Why?”

            Bane aimed the rifle. “Open it.”

            “There’s no need—”

            “You asked where it leads.”

            “It’s not necessary that you show me. A simple answer—”

            “I said open it…before I put a bullet into one of your kneecaps. Climbing down will be a bit harder then.”

            “Please…you’ve shown me enough. I had no idea those men had brought your mother to a place such as this. I wouldn’t have allowed it. There were other ways—”

            “Open it!” Bane roared.

            Dorrance started to bend over but then turned to plead once more. Without hesitation, Bane slammed the rifle butt down upon the man’s shoulder, driving him to the floor. Dorrance howled and gripped his shoulder, writhing.

            Bane stared blindly at him, struck motionless by a sudden flashback. The first man he had killed. An older prisoner, a man nicknamed the Vulture for his gaunt, bird-like frame and balding pate with its comical ring of sparse hair around the crown of his head. A man who—if he had lived—would now be around Thomas Dorrance’s age. The Vulture had taken advantage of Bane’s isolation and grief after his mother’s death, befriending him and spending many hours with him playing chess. But the Vulture, like so many here, had been nothing more than a predator, setting his trap and luring in his victim until one moment when Bane relaxed his guard and provided the Vulture with his opportunity. The man had tried to rape him, but a concealed knife in Bane’s teddy bear proved to be his salvation. He used it in a desperate struggle to slit the Vulture’s throat. Frozen in terror, Bane had watched the older man die, pleading—just as Thomas Dorrance was now pleading—for his life, for Bane’s help. Fleeing, Bane had abandoned his bloody teddy bear that day and any remnant of childhood innocence.

            “My collarbone!” Dorrance’s wail pulled Bane back to the present. “I think you’ve broken it!”

            Recovering, angry for his lapse, Bane snapped, “You’re lucky that’s all I’ve broken. Now open the damn grating.”

            Gasping, Dorrance held his right arm against his chest to relieve the pain in his shoulder while his other hand fumbled to grip the grating. With only one good limb, he lacked the strength to comply, though he tried desperately in order to avoid another blow.

            “I—I can’t lift it.”

            Bane kicked him aside, driving him back against the stone wall, which Dorrance struck with an outcry. Setting the flashlight down, Bane lifted the grating upon its rusty hinges, allowing it to fall back, barely missing Dorrance’s legs, the sound deafening in the narrow, musty corridor. With eyes wide upon the black opening in the floor, Dorrance pressed himself tighter against the wall. Bane dragged him close.

            “Get in.”

            “No, you can’t…I won’t… Please…”

            Bane slung his rifle behind him so he was free to use both hands, lifting the struggling man so that his feet were near the opening of the hole.

            “Either use the ladder or I’ll drop you.”

            Terror robbed Dorrance of his ability to command his legs. Bane smelled fresh urine.

            “Very well,” Bane said and let go.

            With a scream, Dorrance fell into blackness, vanishing down the twelve-foot shaft that emptied into a chamber of hard-packed dirt. Bane remembered it well, that space some five feet square with a ceiling that did not have enough clearance for even a fifteen-year-old boy to stand—his age when he had been thrown into the hole. Those endless hours that had blurred day and night into one long horror still revisited him in nightmares.

            Bane switched off the flashlight. Dorrance’s moans sharpened into a gasp, and Bane listened as he awkwardly scrambled in the blind darkness to climb back up the ladder. Bane slammed the grating shut and stood upon it.

            “No!” Dorrance called. As he tried to climb, he cried out in pain and fell back down. His raspy breathing grew even heavier in the closeness of the shaft as panic consumed him. “Please…don’t leave me here. I swear…I swear I’ll do everything in my power to help you. Whatever you want… Please…for the love of God…let me out.”

            “Where’s all your power now, old man? What good is your wealth down here, eh?”

            Bane would have preferred leaving Dorrance in the hole for some time, but Ducard had cautioned him against lingering too long in the pit. The risk was too great that they could be discovered at the mouth of the shaft. And no matter how much Bane wanted to make his mother’s executioner suffer, he wished to preserve his own freedom even more. Nor did he wish to put Temujin and Ducard in unnecessary danger.

            So he allowed himself only five minutes of listening to Dorrance’s pleas before he finally turned the flashlight back on and opened the grating. A rush of gratitude spilled from his prisoner’s lips.

            “Climb,” Bane ordered. “Or I’ll leave you down there for good.”

            “I—I can’t lift my arm. And my ankle…it’s sprained. Please…you must help me.”

            Irritated by being forced to assist his grandfather, Bane pushed aside his own fears and started down the ladder just far enough to be within Dorrance’s reach.

            “Give me your hand.”

            Dorrance’s flesh—thin and cold—trembled violently in Bane’s grip as they started upward. Bane did not slow his movements for Dorrance’s sake; instead he raked the man brusquely up the rungs. Once clear of the opening, Dorrance collapsed onto the pavement, breathlessly muttering his thanks over and over.

            The strong odor of sweat and urine took hold of Bane’s senses, reminded him of the third prisoner that he had murdered—the malodorous Crazy Saul. Elderly and frail. No struggle whatsoever involved to kill him. Bane had lain in wait for Saul to make his customary nightly pilgrimage to the shaft, when the prison lay in relative quiet and the shaft was usually deserted. Saul would come there then, for it was the only time that he did not feel vulnerable. But he had been vulnerable, made so by his routine. Bane had killed Saul quickly, for he did not want the old man to suffer. Though Bane knew the necessity of eliminating Saul, he had been loath to attack one so helpless. Now he stared down at his grandfather in the shine of the flashlight, hesitated, mentally shook himself, reminded him that _this_ old man deserved none of the pity he had felt toward Crazy Saul.

            “Get up,” Bane ordered, hauling him to his feet, trying to shake off his awareness of the man’s fragility.

            “Are—are we leaving now? We’re going back to the surface?”

            “Fortunate for you, my time here is short.” Bane flashed the light once into his eyes. “Or perhaps I should say unfortunate…for you.” He shut the flashlight off and started up the corridor in total blackness once again.

            “Wait,” Dorrance begged. “My ankle…I can’t move so quickly.”

            “Then I will wait for you in the shaft.”

            This threat of abandonment encouraged Dorrance to rally some unknown reserve and shuffle faster in his wake.

            They had not gone far before Bane came to a sudden halt.

            “Why have we stopped?” his grandfather asked, his breathing still rough and irregular as he caught up.

            Bane put a hand over Dorrance’s mouth, whispered, “Quiet.”

            Dorrance must have sensed his concern because he made no effort to speak again, and his hand reached for Bane’s clothing.

            Bane waited, not breathing, not stirring an inch. Listening. He cursed the mask for hindering his once-acute sense of smell. Someone was close, someone also motionless. Someone waiting with purpose. Of course…the gun was a great temptation. In the light, it was a threat to the prisoners, but here in the dark…it was worth an attempt.

            Several minutes ticked past. Bane had removed his hand from Dorrance’s mouth, knowing the man would remain tight alongside of him, holding onto his clothing for fear that he would be deserted. Inch by smooth inch, Bane took his gun in both hands at waist level. He detected the tiniest of scuffles just ahead and to his left. The attacker had been carefully sidling along the front of the cells on that side of the corridor, waiting for them to pass, so he could slip in behind and take them from the rear. Now, having halted when Bane had stopped, the attacker was growing impatient. Of course the prisoner did not have the patience of one who had lived here for years, as Bane did. And though Bane reminded himself that he could not tarry today, neither did he want to simply spray the corridor with bullets for fear of a ricochet off the stone walls. He needed to draw the man out.

            “The flashlight,” he said to Dorrance, now making little effort to keep his voice low, for indeed he needed his stalker to hear the directive. “Hanging on my right hip.”

            But, as expected, Dorrance could not fumble fast enough to counter the inmate’s sudden decision to attack before light could reveal him. Bane allowed the assailant three steps—enough to bring him nearly to the end of the gun barrel—then he fired. The inmate’s momentum—while lessened by the multiple shots—carried his heavy, now limp form into Bane. Bane knocked him aside with the weapon, and the man fell to the pavement, giving one last sputtering moan.

            Dorrance no longer stood beside him but instead had melted into a terrified crouch at his feet. Bane flashed the light at his bloody victim, into the inmate’s dying eyes, then—satisfied—he turned the beam upon Dorrance, the old man’s white face glowing in the gloom, reminding him again of Crazy Saul.

            “Get up,” Bane commanded, but he could see that Dorrance was frozen and had pissed himself again. Bane returned the flashlight to his belt and pulled his grandfather to his feet. At least now, as he hurried him back toward the shaft, Dorrance had lost the ability to speak.

            When they reached the shaft, Bane found Temujin at his post, concern on his face. Of course he had heard the gunshots but, as instructed, he had remained in the shaft. Doctor Assad was halfway around the stepwell, headed in Bane’s direction, no doubt to investigate. Relief eased his expression when he saw Bane emerge from the darkness. His reaction surprised Bane, for he could not understand why Assad did not hate him for refusing to rescue him. Somehow down here, even after all these years, the doctor maintained compassion. A virtue that Bane knew he would never be able to reflect except when it came to Melisande’s daughter.

            “Is he dead?” Assad asked with a familiar look of disappointment with Bane for what he had done, as if he were once again a mere child.

            Bane moved past without a glance. “Why don’t you go find out?”

            Thomas Dorrance’s courage revived slightly with his return to the shaft. Hope flickered as his attention rose hungrily upward.

            Bane nodded to Temujin, and the Mongol stepped over to attach one of the lines to Dorrance’s harness.

            “You’re—you’re taking me with you?” Dorrance asked, still holding his right arm against his chest, his injured shoulder sagging.

            Bane reached for his own line. “Hope is much like a drug, isn’t it? While you have it, you can endure the pain, almost ignore it. That’s how my mother survived; she lived on hope.” He clipped the carabiner to his harness. “I was that way too…until she died. Then I realized hope was a double-edged sword, a liar, a torturer. It leads only to despair. To survive, I was better off without it.”

            They began the ascent, moving smoothly and quickly with the aid of their comrades above ground. Bane glanced down once as he rose. The stepwell was empty now; no doubt Assad and the others had gone into the tunnel to see to their fellow prisoner. He swallowed hard as relief poured over him, releasing the tension in his muscles, more tension than he had even realized. The tight knot in his stomach untied.

            He squinted up into the light, eager to return to Talia. The emptiness he felt without her reminded him excruciatingly of the days between her escape and his rescue, when he had feared that he would never see her again. For some reason returning to the pit made him worry that he was somehow failing her by not being with her, not protecting her, but as he had every day since being rescued he reminded himself that Talia did not have to rely upon him for protection now. The concept, however, unsettled him more than comforted.

            When Ducard helped him over the stone wall at the mouth of the shaft, his eyes bore into Bane with curiosity at seeing Dorrance with him. Those eyes, though a shade faded from his daughter’s, were yet another stark reminder that Ducard—not he—was Talia’s real family. The family unit that Bane had built with Melisande and Talia was no more. Perhaps it would have been better if he had never known them, for then he would never have had to suffer the agony of losing Melisande, of being unable to save her. Nor would he have to face the idea that he could one day be separated from her child as well. If only his grandfather had not sent his mother here…

            Thomas Dorrance clutched Bane’s arm as he struggled out of the shaft. Trembling from head to toe, he leaned upon the stone wall as Bane brusquely began to free him of the line and harness.

            “Bane,” Ducard said in a questioning tone, for Dorrance’s return to the surface had not been a part of the plan Bane had shared.

            “I know,” Bane said irascibly without looking at either man, jerking the harness free and tossing it aside.

            “Thank you,” Dorrance panted, dragging an arm across his shining forehead, his hair disheveled. “Thank you for sparing me.”

            With newfound strength, Bane clutched his grandfather by the front of his shirt, lifted him back atop the stone wall, pulling a sharp gasp from the man. Dorrance’s legs were rubber beneath him, and he sank heavily to the bricks, both hands gripping the edge of the wall, desperately keeping himself from falling backwards.

            “Wait!” Dorrance said. “Please…I told you…I’ll give you anything you want… Anything.”

            Bane leaned down, the mask pressing against Dorrance’s face, further unbalancing the man. “I _want_ my mother back.”

            With that, Bane shoved Thomas Dorrance backward, and his grandfather plunged, shrieking, down the shaft.


	7. Chapter 7

            They drove back to Jaipur where their jet awaited to fly them to Riyadh. The journey to the airport had been a silent one, Bane lost in tangled thoughts of his return to the pit and all the memories—good and bad—that it had reawakened. Ducard conversed briefly with Temujin, but even the often loquacious Mongol had little to say. The overall mood continued after they were safely in the air and a meal was provided.

            Ever since Bane had recovered enough from his injuries to eat solid foods—prepared especially for his debility, of course, and preceded by an injection of morphine—he ate alone. This practice arose not simply because he did not want to spoil the appetite of others who might find his unmasked deformities unsettling but because of his aversion to putting any weakness on display, no matter how benevolent the company. Old prison habits die hard, and his return to the pit had increased his sensitivity to survival tactics. So while the others ate together, quietly talking, Bane turned his chair with its tray toward the nearest window and stared out over the placid clouds beneath their blue dome of sky.

            Once he was through with the uncomfortable process, he replaced the mask, eager to directly partake of the opiate again. Without it, the demons of the pit had seemed stronger within his memories. With the drug flowing through his senses once more, the echo of his grandfather’s dying scream did not prod his conscience.

            After the meal, Bane drifted off into restless sleep, only to awaken a short time later, feeling stiff and sore from the day’s work. He found Ducard—seated across the aisle from him—studying him. Seeing Bane awake, Ducard gave him a tight, self-conscious smile before returning his attention to a copy of the _Wall Street Journal_. Behind them, Temujin and the other men dozed in their reclined seats.

            Bane said nothing for a time, aware again of the uncomfortable silence between them since leaving the prison. He told himself that he was imagining things, yet the longer he sat there, with neither of them saying anything, the more agitated Bane grew until at last he could remain silent no longer.

            When he spoke, it was as softly as possible for the sake of privacy, yet with enough volume to be heard over the sounds of the jet.

            “You think I was wrong to kill him, don’t you?”

            Ducard was unable to completely hide his surprise at this question. Resting the paper against his thighs, he considered Bane for a long moment. Whenever he did this, Bane squirmed inside, not out of embarrassment or unease, but because he worried that Ducard found something lacking in what he saw.

            “Your grandfather was a corrupt, immoral man,” Ducard said at last in that unique voice of his, one that could be as soft as Bane’s mother’s one moment then ferocious and intimidating the next. “Ridding society of such a man is never wrong.”

            Bane expected Ducard’s words to make him feel better but instead they only troubled him, knowing that others saw his grandfather as a monster, just as he did, and that the same blood flowed through his own veins. What would he become in time?

            “But you think I should have killed him before bringing him back to the surface.”

            Ducard thoughtfully folded the _Journal_ and set it aside. “Vengeance so personal must be meted out in whatever fashion the aggrieved party feels is appropriate, Bane. No doubt when I came to the prison after Talia’s escape, you thought me cruel to kill all who lived there, both those who had butchered my wife and those who had no hand in it.”

            “I didn’t care,” Bane truthfully replied, shivering involuntarily at the memory of his physical state when Ducard had first appeared at his side in the pit.

            When Ducard did not respond right away, Bane forced himself to look at him again, not stare like a weak child at the seat in front of his own.

            A frown turned down the corners of Ducard’s thin-lipped mouth. “You work very hard at not caring, Bane. That is what you want others to believe—that you don’t care. But I see something different in you, and not just because of my daughter. If you truly did not care, if you did not feel anything, then it would not have been so important to you to kill your grandfather the way you did—a very personal, calculated end. People who kill in such a way often feel the most, care the most. It’s those emotions that fuel the drive for justice.”

            Ducard’s insight alarmed Bane, though he buried this reaction as best as he could, turning momentarily away before impelling his gaze back to the big man to prove that he was not made vulnerable by his words.

            “You did not kill him just out of anger for what he had done to your mother,” Ducard continued, the gentle understanding in his tone chipping away at Bane’s veneer. “Your anger is much broader than that.” He glanced downward, gave a small sigh before meeting Bane’s eyes once again. “You are a man of fortitude to have returned to the prison. I was there only a brief time, but it troubles me still to reflect upon it when I consider how my family suffered there.” Ducard paused. “Perhaps now that you have recovered from your injuries, you can tell me more about my wife, about her life after we were separated.”

            The request certainly was not unexpected; Ducard had told him shortly after rescuing him that he would one day ask about Melisande’s life in the pit. And though Bane felt privileged to be able to share such information with his rescuer, he also felt awkward because of his own love for Melisande. How often he had remained awake on his cot at night, imagining that he were sharing it with her. He had even convinced himself that as he matured and the years slipped past, fading her husband from her memory, Melisande would come to desire him in the same way. The hope had never seemed foolish or farfetched at all to him until he had met her husband. But he told himself even now that he would one day be a man as formidable and respectable as Henri Ducard, someone Melisande would have indeed coveted.

            When Bane did not immediately respond to his inquiry, Ducard said, “If it bothers you to speak of that place, I understand—”

            Quickly Bane shook his head. “No…it’s fine.” He collected himself. “It’s the least I can do for you—to share what I remember of her—considering all that you’ve done…are doing for me…and Talia.”

            A mild smile softened Ducard’s features, and he graciously bowed his head.

            Yet Bane found it suddenly very difficult to conjure words to describe the life Melisande had shared with him. His conscious effort to remember details of their five years together nearly overwhelmed him, the force of his emotions taking him by surprise.

            Ducard seemed to sense his struggle, hastened to encourage him by beginning with, “Talia told me that their cell was next to yours.”

            Bane nodded. “It was my mother’s cell…where I lived, I mean. I was lucky to be able to keep it after she died; I was afraid that I might be forced to take another cell farther back in the prison, away from the shaft. The man who used to live in the cell next to me before Melisande arrived…” He faltered, unsure whether to tell Ducard about killing the Vulture, not because he was ashamed of his actions but because he did not want Ducard to inquire as to the circumstances surrounding the murder. “Well…that man…he died just before Melisande got there.”

            “Having seen the place, I imagine her fear was overwhelming…” Ducard shook his head, momentarily closed his eyes. “And to think it was all because of me.”

            “She never blamed you. And, yes, she was afraid, but she recovered quickly…in fact, remarkably so, especially considering the lifestyle she had led up until then, her family’s wealth.”

            “Yes, indeed they are wealthy, but Melisande’s life was not her own. She was as much a prisoner of her father in her own home as she was in the pit. And her spirit…” He smiled broadly now, his blunt teeth catching the sunlight through a nearby window. “Well, no doubt you learned of her lively temperament quickly enough. She was a brave woman to choose me over her father.”

            “Yes, she was very brave. I saw it the first day I met her. It made me admire her. Many of the men who came to the prison couldn’t accept their fate; it destroyed them physically and emotionally. But Melisande…I could tell she wouldn’t let that happen.” Bane hesitated then forced himself to admit, “It was her memories of you, her hope to one day be reunited that got her through those first days. I was a friend to her, as she was to me. My mother hadn’t been dead long when Melisande arrived, so you can understand how we appreciated each other’s company, both of us having lost the person we cared about the most. Then when she discovered she was pregnant with Talia, it gave her even more reason to live.”

            “She was not aware of her pregnancy when she entered the pit?”

            “No.”

            Ducard frowned. “Perhaps if she had known beforehand then she would not have been so selfless and taken my place. She would have rightfully put our child first.”

            “Yes, but would her father have allowed the baby to live? Maybe, in some tragic way, it was better that she was in the pit instead of you. This way Talia survived…and so did you.”

            “But at what price? If only I had known what Melisande had done for me.”

            “What happened to you after her father exiled you? Since you thought Melisande alive, did you try to contact her afterwards?”

            Now Ducard’s expression closed, an all too familiar effort that hid his feelings as completely as Bane’s physical mask hid many of his emotions. Bane feared that he had somehow insulted the man.

            “I was very familiar with her father’s brutality; as you no doubt know, I had worked for him for several years after I had left the army. I feared for Melisande’s safety if I tried to return; her father made his intentions very clear to me. And Melisande herself had made me promise that I would not attempt to forcibly reunite us; she said her father would kill me.”

            “Why didn’t you kill him and take Melisande away with you?”

            One corner of Ducard’s mustache twitched with surprising amusement. “Prison taught you much about the ways of men, Bane, and though some of what you learned translates easily to the world above ground, you must know that you have much to learn yet. You have romantic notions, perhaps from those stories you read to Talia over the years. But I assure you that such notions will quickly be quashed by reality. And the reality of Melisande’s father was that, even if he were dead, he would still find a way to punish both Melisande and me. And if I would not listen to his threats—lethal as they were—I listened to Melisande’s wishes. Ah, but don’t misjudge me when it comes to my depth of feeling for my wife; I always believed that in time, if we waited patiently, the tide would turn and carry us back to one another.” He winked. “ _My_ romantic notion.”

            Bane could not help but smile beneath the mask, for he knew that he too—if he had been Ducard—would have had the same hopes when it came to Melisande. How could any man who knew her as he had not have such dreams?

            “But if you both feared her father so much, why did you marry in the first place?”

            Ducard shrugged one shoulder. “We were young and foolish; Melisande was even younger than I—ten years separated us. We thought in time we could reveal our secret and that her father would accept it by then. After all, I was a valuable asset to him and, equally important, we had a level of esteem for one another. But he viewed my marriage to Melisande as a betrayal. Truth be told, I had hesitated to marry her for all those reasons, but—as I said—Melisande was even more headstrong than I. Her fire…it was one of the things that attracted me to her, her boldness, her fearlessness. She chafed under her father’s strict Islamic beliefs. She dreamed of running away to the West, of going to university.” Wistfully, Ducard smiled. “She wanted to study law and become an activist for women’s rights.”

            “Yes, she told me.” Bane checked this immediate, almost defensive response. Making it plain to Ducard that he, too, knew all of Melisande’s hopes and dreams was perhaps not the right path. He remembered the words of his closest friend in prison—a German, nicknamed Hans—who educated him about the jealousies of men when it came to possessing a woman (or believing that they could possess her). Hans had warned Bane against becoming too close with Melisande, explaining that the other prisoners could very well resent him for it. Of course Bane had been helpless against falling in love with the beautiful woman, and not surprisingly Hans had been correct in his assumptions about the other prisoners.

            To smooth over his selfish reply, Bane added, “I see so much of Melisande in Talia.”

            Ducard nodded. “Yes. She is as remarkable as her mother, even at such a young age. Of course, growing up as she did, she is more adult than child, even at ten, as I’m sure you were at that same age.” He hesitated, and distinct guilt darkened his expression. “Was the birth difficult? Were there any complications?”

            “Doctor Assad referred to it as a normal delivery.”

            Ducard shook his head. “To go through such a thing alone…there especially.”

            “She wasn’t alone,” Bane assured. A statement that served the dual purpose of consoling Ducard as well as establishing his own importance in Melisande’s life, a status that rivaled that of a husband. He could not help himself. These motivations made Bane realize for the first time that he bore a certain level of resentment toward Ducard for his life of ease compared to his wife’s existence…compared to his own. Regardless of the reasons Ducard had just provided for his ignorance of Melisande’s imprisonment, a part of Bane found it difficult to accept them.

            “You assisted with the birth? I assumed the doctor—”

            “The doctor delivered Talia, yes, but I helped; he taught me everything he knew about medicine. I’m the one who washed Talia and wrapped her in…” He thought of Melisande’s blanket tucked away in his pack, still feared Ducard reclaiming it. “I swaddled her and gave her to Melisande. She was so happy. I’ve never seen anyone so completely happy. It was like she had always known Talia, like they were being reunited after a long time apart.”

            Ducard stared, unseeing, toward the forward bulkhead. “If only I could have seen them together… How fortunate you were, Bane. I know that must sound strange to you now but…you witnessed a miracle, one that I will never see.”

            “She spoke of you then. She wished you were there. She so wanted you to see your daughter.”

            One corner of Ducard’s lips twitched. “And so I finally did…thanks to you.” The words, though genuine, did not resonate with particular warmth but instead with something close to veiled bitterness. Bane understood this, however, for it was the same bitterness he felt for not being able to save Melisande from her rapists.

            Self-conscious, Bane brushed aside Ducard’s gratitude and told him all he could about his family, recounting Talia’s first steps, her first words—Mama, followed closely by Ba-ba, a revelation that brought fresh pain to Ducard’s rawboned face; he would know that baba in Arabic meant father. Bane told him of the inmate who had snatched the infant from his arms in the shaft one day and had threatened to extort Melisande’s family for ransom, an attempt that was foiled by Bane with the help of two of his allies. This kidnapper had been the second man whom Bane had killed, a detail he did not share. He explained how they had carefully kept Talia’s gender a secret, how Melisande had named her daughter Henri for that very purpose. Though Ducard had previously learned of his daughter’s dual identity from Talia herself, he now smiled with fresh satisfaction in hearing how his wife had honored him.

            Bane told of the two occasions before Talia’s birth when he had succumbed to Melisande’s desire to leave her cell under the cover of night and accompany him into the shaft so that she might see the sky again. Afraid that Ducard might think him reckless, Bane omitted the fact that an inmate had attacked them during their second venture. He described how Talia used to badger them both relentlessly to be allowed into the stepwell, a wish that had been vehemently denied by Melisande who found it difficult enough to allow Talia out of her safe reach to visit Bane’s or the doctor’s cell with Bane as an escort. After Talia had witnessed the attack upon her mother, her adventurous craving had been dampened, and she refused to leave Bane’s cell for some time. Eventually, though, her liveliness and curiosity had bloomed once more, and she asked Bane to carry her into the shaft. From that day forward, she accompanied him there every day.

            Ducard listened with keen interest, displaying both amusement and concern, but when Bane reached this portion of his narration, Ducard’s expression took on a new level of gravity, and he quietly asked, “You must tell me how she died. I want to know everything.”

            Bane frowned, slightly uneasy not just over the prospect of subjecting Ducard to such pain but at subjecting himself to the horrific, guilt-inducing memories as well.

            “Can you do this for me, Bane?”

            He returned his attention to Ducard, tried to garner strength from the man’s persuading nod. An involuntary clench of Bane’s jaw brought fresh pain, reminding him again of his deformities, of the beating that had led to them.

            “You don’t need to spare me,” Ducard continued. “I need to hear it. I need to share what she suffered for my sake.” When Bane hesitated longer, Ducard glanced back at their sleeping comrades, then urged, “Please.”

            Bane would have given anything to remain silent, to never have to relive that day or feel the inconsolable sorrow, the unbearable failure on his part to protect Melisande. It was that guilt that enabled him to finally speak, to punish himself all over again.

            “Long before that day, even before Talia was born,” he began haltingly, “Melisande asked me to care for Talia if anything was to ever happen to her. Of course, I promised her that I would, that I would protect Talia until my last breath.” He faltered. “I never expected that it would come to that.”

            Slowly, excruciatingly he told of how the doctor had entered Melisande’s cell when Talia had complained of a stomach ache, of how the physician had been urgently called away to treat a gravely ill prisoner and in his haste forgot to lock Melisande’s door behind him.

            “I was in the shaft at the time. I heard her scream. By the time I got to her cell four men were already inside and more were coming from every direction. Talia attacked one of the four with a knife. He turned on her, but I knocked him down and carried her away.” He bowed his head. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help Melisande. I wanted to…”

            Ducard’s big hand reached across to rest upon Bane’s shoulder. “You did the only thing you could do. You saved my daughter.”

            “Maybe I should have locked her in my cell then tried to help Melisande—”

            “Then Talia would have watched you both die. She would have been alone.” Ducard’s hand squeezed once before letting go. “You did the right thing. You kept your promise.”

            “I never should have left them that day.” His voice trembled; his fingers twitched. “I should have stayed in my cell until Assad left them.”

            “Bane. Listen to me. Look at me.”

            Blinking the tears from his eyes, Bane reluctantly turned, embarrassed by the unexpected rush of emotions in front of this man.

            “You have nothing to be ashamed of. You did nothing wrong.” Ducard frowned. “I’m sorry; I never should have asked you all this so soon after… Forgive me.”

            Bane nodded in misery and diverted his gaze. The ruination of his nose burned from the influx of moisture due to his tears. He tried to discreetly sniff and swallow; an awkward, painful effort.

            “I know you loved Melisande.”

            Ducard’s statement froze Bane, stifled his breath. He stared at the seat in front of him, tried to decipher the man’s tone and true meaning. Ducard hesitated before continuing, as if to give Bane a chance to accept or deny what he had said, but Bane dared to do neither.

            “If there was anything that any mortal man could have done for her that day, I know you would have done it. I have no doubt.”

            Bane sensed it then. Subtle, but it was there. Could he call it resentment? It had the feel of resentment, yet… Shame was in it as well. Perhaps shame was its foundation, to have someone—a stranger—risk his very life for a family that was not his own, a family that Ducard could have known if only he had asked the right questions, gone against his wife’s wishes, taken matters into his own hands.

            When their gazes met again, this time it was Ducard who frowned and turned away, though Bane saw him fight against the weakness. Yet in that brief moment Bane realized Ducard saw not his daughter’s rescuer but instead the physical embodiment of his own tragic failure to save his wife from a hellish end.


	8. Chapter 8

            Not since breaking his back had Bane ever felt so physically restricted. As Ducard stepped away from him, he saw himself in the full length mirror. The transformation both astonished and disquieted him. From where Temujin sat on Bane’s hotel bed, the Mongol chuckled, his glee bringing color to Bane’s cheeks.

            “Is it really necessary that I dress this way?” Bane asked.

            “A man in a suit will be a benign sight to your father,” Ducard explained again, “and will not immediately put him in a defensive posture the way your—” he twitched an amused eyebrow at Temujin, “—less elegant attire would. And these clothes will better allow him to see you for what you are—an Englishman.”

            “When he sees my mask,” Bane frowned, “I doubt he’ll even be aware of anything else I’m wearing. If I dressed as an Arab, I could wear a _shemagh_ to conceal it.” His fingers twitched nervously, tugging at the dark tie that Ducard had knotted about his neck, making the collar of his white shirt even tighter than before.

            “You may conceal the sight of it, but you cannot conceal the sound of it.” Ducard retrieved the suit coat from the bed, held it open for Bane to slip his arms into the sleeves. “Your mask can serve you well in this endeavor, Bane. You should not view it as a handicap but instead as an asset.”

            _Easy for you to say_ , Bane grumped to himself.

            “Your injuries may well garner your father’s sympathy.”

            “But he can’t see the injuries. All he’ll see is this freakish contraption.”

            Ducard buttoned Bane’s coat, brushed the shoulders smooth. “Then it is up to you to make sure he sees beyond that, that he sees his son, a young man who has mastered countless challenges, a survivor, not a victim. Someone who deserves his respect.”

            Bane’s guts twisted at the prospect of convincing his father of anything. To associate with Ducard and his men was one thing, but to be thrust out into the public eye, to face his father alone… He had never felt more helpless and ill-equipped.

            “You can do this,” Temujin encouraged, coming over to stand beside him, looking into the mirror with his gap-toothed grin. “Look at yourself. Our young bull is now a man of the world. Your mother would be proud.”

            Bane was not so sure, especially when he recalled how his mother had always exhorted him to become a better man than the criminals who shared their world in the pit. What would she say if she knew all that he had done since her death?

            Nervously he tugged at the narrow leather belt at his waist, the buckle shining in the bright sunlight through the windows that overlooked Riyadh. Wistfully he glanced at his pack on the floor nearby into which he had placed the support belt. His lower back already protested the absence of Choden’s brace. Briefly he thought of his medical attendant, as well as the others back at the monastery, especially Talia. How he missed her. And he knew with more certainty than he felt for anything else in life that she missed him just as badly. When would he see her again? Sooner rather than later, he told himself, if the meeting with his father did not go the way he wanted.

            “Put on your shoes,” Ducard directed. “It is time to go.”

            As Bane obeyed, Ducard and Temujin gathered their belongings. Briefly Bane’s gaze drifted around the spacious, bright suite, considered all of the amenities there—rich furnishings, a stocked refrigerator and bar, large televisions, a bathroom nearly twice the size of Bane’s cell, a balcony with a breathtaking view of the Saudi city, king-sized beds with cloud-like softness in which he had basked far too long this morning. He shook his head in disbelief at the prodigious excess. Where did Ducard come by his money? And why did a man of such obvious wealth live in a primitive mountain hideaway?

            At the door, Ducard paused with his hand on the latch. “Remember, Bane. Give us fifteen minutes before you leave here.”

            “Yes, sir.”

            Ducard gave a nod of approval. “Good luck.”

            Temujin, too, left his well wishes before he followed Ducard out the door.

            Bane’s nerves set him on edge even more now that he was so very alone. When he turned, he again caught sight of himself in the mirror. The suit Ducard had provided fit him surprisingly well, its advent adding to the myriad of questions Bane had about the man and his resources. Would he ever get answers? Would the time come when he would feel comfortable making inquiries of Ducard? Would Ducard answer truthfully? Thinking of their conversation on the plane, Bane frowned. No doubt Ducard was hoping today would go well and he would be rid of his ward.

            Bane’s attention went to the sweep of windows, which faced west. Although the sun was climbing into the sky on the opposite side of the tall hotel, the world outside his windows was blindingly bright to Bane. Last night, when he could not sleep, he had sat upon the balcony in the sultry desert evening and stared out upon the varied patterns of artificial illumination below, had watched the wink of airliners’ lights as they came and went in the distance, had thought of the thousands of people living and dying all around him without his knowledge. After growing up in a finite population, he found it difficult now to believe that there were millions upon millions of people existing throughout the world, people and places he would never see. Did he want to see those places or meet those people? His curious nature answered affirmatively, but he was unsure if he could truly bear a realm where the brightness laid everything and everyone so bare.

            He checked his wristwatch—a formidable, handsome silver timepiece that belonged to Ducard. Bane gave a sardonic grunt. To think that he now lived in a place where time was quantified and had real meaning… So inconceivable a short while ago.

            He sat on the bed and closed his eyes. With a will, he breathed deeply of the opiate, tried to clear his mind except to think of his mother, of her stories about his father and their relationship. If he accomplished nothing for himself today, he vowed that at least his father would know what had happened to the woman he had loved. The sacred promise Bane had made to his mother all those years ago would be fulfilled.

            When he left the room behind, he retraced his steps from the evening before when Ducard had walked him down to the café on the hotel’s ground floor, the place where he would meet his father, as arranged by Ducard.

            “I will be nearby with one of my men,” Ducard had explained. “We, too, will appear simply as businessmen, but—have no fear—we will be there to act, should it be required. I instructed your father to bring no more than one man from his security detail, and that if he does not follow my instructions, then the man whom he is to meet will not oblige him.”

            “How will I know?”

            “You will arrive after your father. When you reach the lobby, Temujin will be there. If he is standing casually near the doors, reading a newspaper, then you will proceed to the café to meet your father. If Temujin is seated, that will be your signal to abort. You will proceed immediately out the front doors to our sedan across the street where Hafif will be waiting.”

            “If that happens, what about you and the others?”

            “We will rendezvous with you and Hafif at the airport.”

            The details of Ducard’s various contingencies rattled through Bane’s head as he rode the elevator—blissfully alone—down to the lobby. His fingers twitched, and sweat gathered around his collar; he tugged at it, sure the tie would eventually choke him. Why would anyone subject himself to such unwieldy, impractical clothing? Perhaps Westerners were not so advanced after all.

            The elevator bell chimed, and the doors slid open upon the lobby, which was busy with customers checking out—all men, most in Saudi dress. A couple of pairs of eyes turned his way, widening in shock and freezing Bane just outside the elevator. Men who had been waiting for the lift hesitated to step past him, their gazes dropping quickly away from the mask when Bane’s attention turned to them. One cleared his throat, braved sidling past, eventually, hurriedly followed by the others. Hotel employees glanced his way as well but then furtively diverted their eyes.

            At last Bane recovered enough to look for Temujin. With immense relief, he saw the Mongol standing across the lobby, newspaper in hand. He lowered it enough to shoot Bane a brief, concerned look, as if afraid Bane would never move without him crossing over to prod him. Bane mentally kicked himself into motion, refusing to look down, refusing to avoid the startled gazes of those he passed.

            The hotel’s lavish restaurant was located to one side of the lobby—closed at this early hour—while the café where patrons could get a conservative breakfast or coffee lay at the opposite end. Temujin would eventually follow, keeping his attention upon those coming and going. The Mongol, like Ducard and his companion, wore a concealed handgun. Bane, however, was unarmed. If his father proved false and attempted to have him detained for questioning about Thomas Dorrance’s disappearance, Bane would have to be ready to elude his captors with nothing more than his fists.

            “Will you be…dining…alone, sir?” the maître d’ asked, recovering with remarkable speed from his initial shock at his customer’s alarming appearance.

            “No. A gentleman is expecting me.” Bane managed to keep his voice steady. “Edmund Dorrance.”

            “Yes, sir. Right this way.”


	9. Chapter 9

            Bane suppressed his instinctive desire to take in his surroundings, to scout for escape routes or things that could be used to his advantage if threatened. To show such outward signs of unrest to anyone potentially watching would be unwise, so he kept his eyes on the back of the maître d’. He reminded himself that Ducard would be there, as promised; he need not look for him in the capacious café.

            There were only about a dozen patrons, but Bane felt all eyes upon him, including those of a Westerner seated alone directly ahead of them, a middle-aged man who paled as Bane drew closer. He wore a dark gray suit but had removed the jacket and draped it over one of the four chairs at the table. His white shirt was immaculately pressed, bearing a tie with a dark red and gray design. He looked as uncomfortable as Bane felt.

            The maître d’ stepped aside, sweeping an inviting hand toward Edmund Dorrance. “Your waiter will be with you momentarily, sir.”

            Bane ignored him, thinking, _Does the fool sincerely think I can drink through this damn thing_?

            The maître d’ retreated.

            In utter, paralyzing disbelief Bane stared into his father’s brown eyes as he slowly got to his feet. He bore a striking resemblance to Thomas Dorrance, tall and slim, his short, sandy brown hair parted to one side and beginning to thin, his face bearing the rigors of years spent under the harsh Middle Eastern sun. The arch of his eyebrows matched Bane’s, but his nose was shorter, his lips considerably thinner with a long, pronounced philtrum.

            “Edmund Dorrance, I presume?”

            “Yes.” His father seemed to debate whether or not to offer his hand in greeting but then simply gestured to the chair across the table before sitting back down. His hands quickly went to his coffee cup, nervously turning it upon its china saucer, the liquid trembling within.

            Just as Bane settled, a waiter materialized at his elbow. Seeing Bane’s mask, the man tripped over his first attempt to speak before finding his tongue. “Is—is there anything I can get you, sir?”

            “No,” Bane said coldly without looking at him.

            “More coffee for you, sir?” the waiter asked Bane’s father.

            “What I have is sufficient for now. Thank you.” He forced a wan smile, as if wishing the waiter would linger and thus postpone this meeting.

            “We don’t want to be disturbed,” Bane ordered.

            “Very well, sir. If you change your mind, please let me know.” The waiter eagerly fled.

            Edmund Dorrance tried not to stare at the mask, but of course it was impossible if he intended to meet his son’s gaze. “Your message said you have information regarding my father’s disappearance. Are you an associate of his?”

            “No.” Bane hoped the mask successfully hid some of his struggle to maintain composure. To be facing the man whom he had thought of and dreamed about for years, had heard stories about, had hoped to be his rescuer… The emotions and disbelief nearly strangled him. How he wished the mask away. Surely without it and his injuries, his father would not be looking at him with so much mistrust and uneasiness. Perhaps without it, his father would recognize himself and the woman he had once loved.

            “Is he…is he alive?”

            “I will answer your question after you have answered some of mine.”

            His father’s eyebrows knit, and he studied Bane for a lengthy moment before asking, “Have we…have we met somewhere before, you and I?”

            The inquiry caused Bane to falter. The timbre of his father’s voice triggered a flash of memory, something poignant but unidentifiable, something during a time of great pain. With no time to search his past for what had undoubtedly been nothing more than a wish, he pushed the strange feeling aside.

            “No, we have not. Why do you ask?”

            Dorrance shook his head. “It’s nothing, I’m sure. I would remember your…” His words tripped to a halt.

            “My mask? I haven’t worn it long, but even so, you do not know me.”

            “Then why have you offered to help me?”

            “I didn’t come to help you.”

            “But…my father—”

            “Your father,” Bane’s voice gained strength, “he’s always watched over you, hasn’t he? He’s provided you with your current…station?”

            Now a shadow of defensiveness crossed his father’s face, and he straightened slightly in his chair. “True enough, he had a positive influence in certain circles when it came to my career, but you misjudge me if you think I’m incapable of…” He bit off his words, blinked once with a slight shake of his head. “What is it you want?”

            “You are married, I understand, with a family.”

            A muscle twitched along his father’s jawline. “What does that have to do with your reason for being here?”

            Bane could not ignore the pain caused by his father’s bristling reaction. It was plain that Edmund Dorrance cared for his family, feared for them now, especially because of his own father’s mysterious disappearance. Though Bane realized it had been a stretch to hope that Edmund Dorrance’s family served strictly a practical purpose, it injured him all the same to know that he and his mother had been so readily replaced.

            “It’s a marriage you resisted at first, am I right?”

            Dorrance bridled even more. “That’s none of your business, sir.”

            “Your wife…she wasn’t your first choice, though, was she?”

            “How dare you? What does this have to do with my father?”

            “It has everything to do with your father.” Bane forced an edge to his tone to cow him, afraid that he would flee at any minute. “You need to hear what I have to tell you.”

            “Then tell me without this—this interrogation.”

            Bane’s fingers twitched in his lap, and he brought them atop the table, laced them together. “There was a woman…before your wife, the daughter of a diplomat who had been killed…”

            His father’s eyes widened, and the flush of anger now drained instantly away from his cheeks.

            “You remember her then? Katherine. Or, as you called her, Kat.”

            His father’s eyes nearly started from his head. Yes, he would be shocked to hear that the pet name only he had used for her was known to someone else, someone whom he did not recognize.

            “Who are you?”

            Bane leaned slightly over his hands. “She never forgot you, you know.”

            Agape, his father shoved his chair back from the table and nearly got to his feet, but something held him there, and Bane could only hope that it was love for his mother.

            “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You can’t. She’s been dead for over twenty-five years, and you can’t be old enough to have known her—”

            “I am twenty-five. And you were misled—she’s only been dead for twelve years.”

            “You—you have mistaken the Katherine I knew for someone else. The Katherine I knew was killed in an accident…twenty-five years ago…” His expression of outraged denial momentarily cleared as he repeated the number but then the anger returned. “This isn’t about my father, is it? This is some sort of ploy to blackmail me.”

            “I told you that I have information about your father, and I do. But more importantly I have information about the woman you _should_ have married, the one who loved you until her dying day. I promised her that I would find you, that I would tell you the truth about what happened to her.”

            His father fell silent as he struggled within himself over whether to stay or leave, whether to believe what this stranger was saying to him. The fact that he lingered proved to Bane that long ago, when he had been informed of the sham death, a part of his father had not believed the news.

            “Did you try to find her?” Bane asked, his voice quieter now, his own emotions catching up with him.

            “Find her? She died.”

            “That’s what your father wanted you to believe, yes. But what he really did to her…it was worse than death.”

            His father tried to rally indignation. “Why should I believe anything you’re saying? Who are you?”

            “You should believe me because I was with her in prison. I was with her when she died, when she last spoke of you.”

            “Prison?”

            “Yes, prison. It’s where they took her when the car accident was staged…staged by your father.”

            Edmund Dorrance’s eyebrows lowered. “You’re out of your mind—”

            “You don’t believe your father capable of such a thing? Look what happened after she disappeared—you did exactly as he wanted; you’re still doing exactly as he wanted. I’ve met your father, and in just that short time I knew he was capable of condemning her. So if I knew that after just meeting him, I know you believe it after all these years. Is that why you believed him when he told you that she was dead? You knew, even if it was a lie, that he would never let you be with her.”

            His father stared at the table, and in his eyes Bane saw the memories. A vision that Bane painfully shared, for he had felt those same things after Melisande’s death.

            “Tell me then,” his father said with barely the strength to whisper. “Tell me what really happened.”

            Bane hesitated, his mouth uncomfortably dry. He stared at his untouched water glass, the ice within it nearly melted now, the liquid mocking him. “Your father’s men took her to a prison not far from Jaipur, India.” From his pocket he withdrew a slip of paper and slid it across the table. “Those are the coordinates to its location. There is a doctor there by the name of Assad who will verify her existence, her death. It is a place from which no one returns. It lies hundreds of feet underground. She spent the rest of her life there, longing for the day when you would come for her. She was the only female prisoner, so she was confined to her cell. That’s where she died of pneumonia.”

            His father’s eyes had become moist and haunted as he listened, turning the paper over and over in his hand, trying to believe and not believe all at once. “How—how do you know all this?”

            “I told you—I was there, too.” He waited until his father had the strength to look at him again. “She gave birth to me there. I was thirteen when she died.”

            Bane saw it all come to his father then, the years, the numbers, the calculation, the youthfulness of the man who now faced him…and, Bane hoped, the memory of his mother’s eyes which Bane saw each time he looked in a mirror. He watched the belief spread across his father’s features, pushing the man against the back of his chair for support, his arms dragged from the table, hands falling limp into his lap. Bane said nothing more, waited without breathing, battling back the mist that fought to blur his vision.

            “It was you,” his father croaked out. “It was you I saw.”

            Bane frowned in confusion.

            “They told me how you kept repeating my name. I was in New Delhi at the time…”

            “What…what are you talking about? How could you have seen me? I was in prison until…” Bane’s words trailed away into memory. The pain he had suffered then had made him forget, had made him credit delirium for what he had thought he heard that day seven years ago, delirium from the agony of his injuries and the drugs after the surgery on his spine. A man had come to see him at the clinic, but Bane had never seen his face, too groggy after the operation. Yet he had heard him talking with the doctor. If only he could remember…

            “They said you had been trying to escape, that you had fallen…”

            Bane felt suddenly lightheaded. He reached to the rear of his mask to the small canister where the opium crystals were placed, tapped it almost frantically.

            “You weren’t wearing that mask then, and the only name they told me was…was…”

            “Bane.”

            “Yes—yes, that was it. And, of course, I didn’t recognize you. How could I?” His father’s voice diminished. “How could I?” He searched Bane’s face, the eyes above the mask. “Did he know? Did my father know when he sent her there…that she was pregnant?”

            “No,” Bane managed. “She hadn’t told anyone. She had just discovered it…before… And she was afraid of what your father might do if he found out.”

            They sat looking at one another, as if truly seeing for the first time.

            “If I had known…” his father began then faltered. “You must believe me…I never would have allowed you to be sent back there.”

            A lump in his throat prevented Bane from responding. Could he believe his father? To think that he could have been rescued then and perhaps Melisande and Talia, too…Melisande would now be alive…

            “Bane… Is that your real name?”

            Unsuccessfully Bane tried to swallow the lump. For some reason the name that he had banished the day his mother had died sprang back to his lips as if he had thought of it just yesterday. The mask denied his father hearing his weak response. In answer to his puzzled look, Bane repeated, this time with more of a will, “She called me Edward, after her father.”

            This detail about his maternal grandfather swept away any scrap of doubt that may have lingered in Edmund Dorrance.

            “How—how did you escape? You said no one ever—”

            Thinking of Ducard and Talia’s safety, he said, “I climbed again.”

            His father sipped distractedly from his cup, more from nerves than true thirst, Bane could tell. After setting the coffee back down, he gestured weakly, self-consciously. “If I may ask…why do you wear the mask? Were you injured again?”

            “Yes.” Bane left it at that, though he could see his father’s troubled curiosity. Was he wanting to help? Would he offer money or medical services to make up for all those years? Bane hoped not, for pity was the last thing he desired from his father of all people.

            “Are you in pain?”

            “Sometimes.”

            “I’m sorry. I truly am. If I had known…” He hesitated. “I loved your mother. When I thought her dead…I was lost. For a time I couldn’t imagine living without her. I resented my father for introducing me to Saihah, the woman he wanted me to marry. I didn’t want to like her, but…she understood my grief; she had lost a sister who was very dear to her. Over time we became friends, close friends…then…” His finger trailed around the rim of his coffee cup. “I thought Katherine was dead. Saihah made me see that I had to go on living.”

            “You have two children.”

            There was surprise in his father’s eyes but not the alarm that Bane had seen earlier when he had mentioned his family.

            “Yes. They are grown now.” He paused. “Where do you live?”

            “Far from here…with friends.” Bane detected a certain amount of relief in his father’s eyes, and though it did not surprise him, it hurt Bane all the same. “I haven’t come here to cause a scandal for you and your family. I bear you no ill will for what I’ve endured. I came because of the promise I made to my mother.” Bane faltered. “And because I wanted to meet my father. I needed to know that he’s not like his own father.”

            The reminder of Thomas Dorrance extinguished some of the light in his parent’s eyes. “And what of my father? Do you really have information about him?”

            “I know of his fate, yes.”

            The anger that Bane had carried into this place no longer provided the strength he needed and was, in fact, gone. Though he did not regret his actions, to lay out the truth now that he had met his father seemed ever so much more difficult and unwise.

            “He is dead.”

            His father’s hand tightened upon the white tablecloth, spokes of wrinkles fanning outward. “And how do you know this?”

            Bane’s admission would not come forth…not now. He had weighed his choices before coming here, had told himself that if his father’s response to his paternity was favorable then he would not reveal that he was responsible for Thomas Dorrance’s murder. Now, having acquired that benign response, he felt cowardly for not admitting his crime. Yet he reminded himself of what he had owed his mother, of how he could never have lived with himself if he had allowed his grandfather to go unpunished. Nor could he so jeopardize his promise to Melisande to safeguard Talia by admitting to his guilt and potentially suffering prosecution and jail time.

            “Like you,” Bane said at last, “I have people whom I must protect, so I can’t say all that I know. But I also understand what it is like to wonder, to never have answers. Even tragic answers are better than no answers at all. So believe me when I tell you that he is dead.” Thinking of Doctor Assad, he added, “Perhaps his body will be returned to you, unlike my mother’s body, which is lost to both of us.”

            This reminder of the tragedy they shared left them both silent for a long space of time. Bane took comfort in the fact that Thomas Dorrance’s death had elicited neither rage nor tears from his father. Though emotions, including grief, reflected in his father’s brown eyes and in the tightening of his jaw, he allowed no words to express them. Perhaps, Bane told himself, his father had hated the man as much as he did, and learning of his part in the death of Bane’s mother had only added to that hatred. Yet even if all of this was true, Bane still could not admit to him what he had done; he did not want this encounter to end with his father realizing the evil his son was capable of doing.

            And with that thought pushing at his nerves, Bane abruptly said, “I must be going,” and shoved his chair back.

            “Wait,” his father held out his hand. “Wait…”

            Bane stood but held his place.

            “You’re just going to leave…after all this?”

            Bane tried to read what was behind his father’s question. Anger? Indignation? Hurt? He was too afraid to search for the answer.

            “We both know I can’t stay. I understand the situation; I won’t disrupt your family or your career.”

            His father stood. “But…there must be something…something I can do for you.”

            His response disappointed Bane. Yet what did he expect? To believe that his father would embrace him and welcome him into his life had been sheer folly. He realized that now; perhaps he had realized it before he had even sat down at this table. After all, he was no longer the small boy who dreamed every night of his father delivering him from his nightmares. And perhaps his father even suspected his hand in Thomas Dorrance’s murder, and if he ultimately found that to be true, he would surely want nothing to do with his son. So they were better off parting now.

            “There _is_ one thing you can do,” Bane said at last.

            An expectant, almost anxious line creased his father’s brow. “What is it?”

            “Don’t ever forget her.” He said this as a command, not as a request. “Because she never forgot you.”

            Then, before his father could react, Bane turned for the door. And though his father called after him, Edmund Dorrance did not pursue him.


	10. Chapter 10

            Bane sat for several minutes longer in the back of the black sedan after Hafif had parked outside the jet hangar. Numbly he stared at the leather seat back in front of him.

            “It will be about half an hour before the others arrive,” Hafif said. “Do not wander off.”

            With that terse order, the man left his driver’s coat on the seat and exited the vehicle. Bane knew Hafif would not have done so if not certain that no one had followed them from the hotel. From the trunk, Hafif removed his pack, leaving Bane’s behind, and walked with confident purpose out onto the ramp where their jet was receiving the last of its fuel. Sunlight flashed against the handgun on his hip.

            Now that both Thomas and Edmund Dorrance had been dealt with, Bane got the impression from Hafif’s stony visage that he was relieved to be nearly through with this mission, as if the very personal nature of their venture displeased him. Throughout these short days, neither Hafif nor Passat had spoken more than a sentence or two to him. At first Bane had figured it was merely their aloof nature as trained men, but after sensing Hafif’s current mood—perhaps something the man would not have displayed if Ducard were present—Bane began to wonder if they resented their master’s solicitude for this deformed criminal. After all, he was not one of them, and his injuries—both emotional and physical—portrayed him as inferior to them. Perhaps, Bane thought, he would one day be able to prove them so very wrong.

            As the conversation with his father played over and over in his head, Bane shifted in the leather seat, fingers twitching until his agitation chased him out from behind the heavily darkened windows of the vehicle. He paced inside the hangar, protected from the sun but not from its stifling late morning heat. It had to already be over forty degrees Celsius. Sweat poured down his face and neck, the mask smothering him. He clawed at the knot of his tie until it came free. Tossing it back into the car where the suit coat lay, he unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt. He pulled the tails free of his slacks as he continued to restlessly walk back and forth, ignored by the couple of airport employees who passed near; ignored, that is, after their initial stares at his mask.

            He wished he could tear the mask off as well. Would his conversation with his father have ended differently if he had sat before him as a whole man? His father would have better recognized his mother in his features, he was certain. Then he berated himself for leaving so abruptly when he had not gotten the welcoming response he had desired. Perhaps if he had remained longer, allowed his father to get to know him, to understand and appreciate all that he had suffered, things would have been different. Like Ducard had said, such information might have softened Edmund Dorrance. Now he would never know.

            No, he told himself after further debate, he was a fool to hope anything would have been different. His father had a family, a career to preserve. Even if he lacked his hideous physical aspects, no doubt an introduction to his father’s family would drive a wedge between Edmund Dorrance and his wife, perhaps even between him and his children, raising questions that had only uncomfortable answers. And then if he was truly suspected as Thomas Dorrance’s murderer, his father would have to choose between the man who had created him and the man whom he had created. No, Bane assured himself, it was far better that he forge his own way in life. He had kept his promise to his mother; that was all that truly mattered.

            When another sedan pulled up near the hangar, Ducard, Temujin, and Passat emerged. After removing their belongings from the trunk, Ducard spoke briefly with the Saudi driver before the car pulled away. Seeing Bane, Ducard came toward him while Passat and Temujin carried their bags toward the jet.

            Unexpectedly, Bane had trouble finding his voice at first, so Ducard rescued him, “Did you find your meeting to be satisfactory?”

            His choice of words left Bane somewhat flummoxed, yet he figured Ducard’s seeming detachment was an effort to separate emotion, and thus pain, from the ordeal, for surely Ducard could see by his demeanor that the meeting had decidedly not gone well.

            “I—I think he believed me…about my mother, I mean, and who I am to him.”

            Ducard removed his sunglasses. “And you told him of his father’s death?”

            Bane nodded.

            “It appeared to me,” Ducard said, “that he was neither alarmed nor angered.”

            “I don’t know. I’m not sure he could take it all in just then, especially after all the other things I had told him before that. But, at least, I know he believed that his father is dead.”

            “And did you discuss your future?”

            Ashamed, he could not meet Ducard’s eyes. Instead he stared at the man’s crisp, straight tie, the suit coat still buttoned. “No. I figured if he wanted to be a part of that, he would have said so. He did not.”

            To internally realize such a painful thing had been barely endurable, but vocalizing the rejection gave free rein to his emotions, and he had to rapidly blink, his head still bowed, in order to conceal his feelings.

            “It would appear,” Ducard said, “the apple did not fall far from the tree.”

            Bane produced a grunt of false apathy, but he knew Ducard saw through his effort. “Then where does that leave me if we come from the same tree?”

            “You are the obvious fruits of your mother, Bane. And that is something in which you should take comfort.”

            Bane could yield little more than a weak nod.

            “And what now for you?” Ducard prompted. “You assured me that you have considered options should your father prove…less than accommodating.”

            Bane’s lie came back to haunt him now, for in reality he had no true alternatives. He had spoken of Hans and a nonexistent offer to find him employment in Germany, as well as claiming an interest in becoming an interpreter for the military. But even if such opportunities were viable, Bane did not want to leave Talia, especially so soon after their rescue. This was the sole point of relief for him over his father’s rejection. Bane knew Talia needed him still…and he needed her. She was the only one who could ever understand him. He had been a fool to hope that his father would even try.

            Stalling, Bane scuffed his loafer against the pavement, stared at the shining dark leather as he remembered his sad excuse for shoes in prison, how he had cobbled his and Talia’s footwear together, as he had with their clothing as well.

            “Well,” he mumbled, then straightened and forced himself to look Ducard in the eyes and speak as clearly as the mask allowed, “the truth is I’d like to return with you…to be trained…and to serve you however you see fit.”

            Ducard studied him for an uncomfortable moment, and Bane feared that the man might rebuff him. Surely his words had not taken Ducard by surprise?

            “It is not blind allegiance that I seek in my men,” Ducard said at last. “We fight for a cause. It is to that cause that they swear allegiance, not to me, not to any man.”

            Frustrated, Bane struggled to articulate his plan. “I am here because you saved my life. How many of your men can claim a greater debt to you? What could possibly make a man more loyal?”

            Ducard put a hand on Bane’s shoulder, his gray eyes piercing. “I don’t doubt your loyalty, Bane. My daughter’s existence is proof of the strength of such loyalty. But what my men fight for—and what many of them die for—is loftier by far than owing another man a life debt. You must understand that I hold no such debt over you, nor would I do so with any man, no matter what has been sacrificed. If you return with me, you will seek only to serve the cause of justice, not me, not a man, not yourself.”

            “That’s all I’ve ever sought—justice. Justice for my mother, for myself, for Talia, for…Melisande. So you can rest assured that I am well-versed.”

            Ducard’s hand dropped back to his side. “Yet you know nothing of our…organization. You know nothing of the League of Shadows. It is not the life for every man. It is a solemn commitment fraught with sacrifice; it is not an occupation.”

            This was the first time Bane had heard Ducard refer to his organization by name. The fact that he saw fit to now share it thrilled Bane and returned some of his self-confidence, gave him hope that Ducard viewed him not as merely a handicapped boy but as a capable man.

            “I’ve lived my whole life in the shadows,” Bane slowly responded. “I know nothing else. And from what I’ve seen so far of the rest of the world and how it views me, I think it’s best if I remain in the shadows.” He paused. “If you’ll have me.”

            Bane held his breath as Ducard considered him, looking down along his prominent, slightly crooked nose, a stirring of hot breeze toying with his hair. What seemed the longest moment of Bane’s life passed before Ducard’s gaze softened, and one corner of his mouth twitched in a brief smile.

            “Very well,” Ducard nodded. “If you are able to stand up to the rigors of training, then perhaps the time will come when you can enter our ranks. But understand me, Bane. There can be no partiality on my part. This goes beyond anything that we—or others—may view as reciprocity. You succeed or fail by your own doing.”

            Able to breathe once more, Bane tried to temper the eager appreciation in his voice, “I understand. Thank you, sir.”

            “Very well, then. Grab your pack, and let’s be on our way.” They turned together as the jet engines whined to life. “By the time we return, you should have the privilege of meeting the League’s esteemed leader, Rā’s al Ghūl. He will have returned to the monastery by now.”

            Surprise nearly tripped Bane. “But I thought you—?”

            “No, dear boy. I am a mere foot soldier compared to him. Men like me can only aspire to such greatness.”

            Intrigued, Bane said no more, for words could scarcely be heard now over the engines as they hurried across the ramp.

            Rā’s al Ghūl. Bane turned the curious name over in his mind. The Demon’s Head. What sort of man would take such a title? And why had Ducard and his men kept this seemingly benign information from him during these past months? Did Ducard not trust even the man who had saved his daughter?

            As Bane climbed up the ramp stairs to the jet, he wondered of all the other things that remained hidden from him.


	11. Chapter 11

            The doors to the monastery flew open when Bane and the others were still several feet away, and Talia—lacking a coat of any kind—burst out into the cold toward them, her face alight as she exclaimed, “You’re back! You’re back!”

            She flew across the hard-packed snow and, to Bane’s surprise and delight, threw herself not into her father’s arms but into his own. She squeezed him to near suffocation.

            “You came back!”

            Bane laughed. “Of course I came back. I told you we’d see each other again, didn’t I?”

            “I missed you so much.”

            “I missed you, too, little mouse.” Close to her ear, he urged in a whisper, “Go to your father,” and reluctantly set her down.

            “Papa!”

            Before Ducard scooped her into his arms, Bane caught the slight shadow in the man’s eyes, and from beyond him Temujin tossed Bane a cautioning look.

            “You aren’t going away again, are you?” Talia asked her father with a kiss and a winning smile.

            “Not for a while at least,” Ducard assured.

            “Next time I get to come with you.”

            Ducard chuckled. “We shall see.”

            Temujin put on a hurt look, arms crossed against his chest. “Apparently you did not miss me, little one.”

            She grinned at the Mongol and squirreled down her father so she could embrace Temujin, who laughed appreciatively.

            “All right, all right,” Temujin said, fending off Talia’s playful kisses. “Why don’t you run and tell Jamyang that he has five starving men to feed?”

            With her cheeks flushed by the weather as well as good cheer, Talia gave her father and Bane one last dazzling smile then bolted back through the doors. Ducard shook his head, chuckling again, then led the way inside.

            The doors to the monastery opened upon a small anteroom which led into a larger room, referred to as the Great Hall. This room was illuminated only by candles and a few windows which bore the same opaque glass as all others in the monastery, allowing nothing except muted light to intrude from the outside world. Bane had often come here during his two months of recuperation, for he found it a place of peace in which he could often be alone and meditate. Even Talia knew not to disturb him there, though sometimes she would creep in and sit silently next to him.

            Beyond this room they were met by a man whom Bane did not recognize. At first he thought perhaps this was Rā’s al Ghūl, but he dismissed the idea out of hand due to the man’s young age. Surely someone younger than Ducard would not be the League’s commander.

            “Ah, Damien,” Ducard said with a certain amount of warmth in his tone. “I’m pleased to see that you have safely returned.”

            The two men briefly embraced, a gesture that Bane had never seen Ducard share with anyone except his daughter. It took Bane aback.

            Passat and Hafif said nothing to Damien, merely offering acknowledging nods before continuing on their way past him. Bane envied them, for the exhausting climb up the mountain and the mask’s waning drug supply left him eager to retreat to his room. But he dutifully remained just behind Ducard, awaiting the inevitable introduction. Behind him, Temujin made a low sound in his throat, muttered something in his native language. Bane glanced at his friend and received a disgruntled flash of dark eyes.

            When Damien stepped back from Ducard, his narrow eyes reached to Bane, sharply aware and devoid of any friendliness. They were unique eyes—brown in color for the most part except for the outer rims of the irises, which were blue. His brown hair was cropped short in a military style, his eyebrows thick and without definition, several days’ growth of beard darkening his strong jawline. His clothes were militaristic as well—olive drab cargo pants and a tank top that accentuated a muscular, tattooed torso and arms. He stood nearly Bane’s height. Bane guessed his age to be early thirties.

            “So this is Talia’s protector, I assume.” The young man spoke with an American accent and with no hint of gratitude or appreciation toward Bane. He gestured at Bane’s mask with a cocky smile. “I’m _assuming_ because you are the only one here to match the…inimitable description I received of her protector.”

            “Yes, this is Bane,” Ducard said, turning. “Bane, this is Damien Chase; he is—what you might call—my lieutenant.”

            Instinctively hesitant, Bane slowly offered his hand, which Chase took before it could be fully extended. The tight grip was more challenging than welcoming, as was Chase’s smile with his straight, white teeth. Something about him reminded Bane of a prisoner named Greyson, a man who had often tormented him as a boy, a memory that kept any proprietary warmth from his expression now.

            “And no doubt you remember Temujin,” Ducard said.

            Now Chase’s smile vanished altogether as he eyed the Mongol, who made no effort to come within reach. “Yes, I remember well the man who forsook the League.”

            “Now, Damien,” Ducard chided. “Don’t discourage our Mongolian brother. I’ve nearly convinced him to rejoin us permanently.”

            Keeping his stare on Chase, Temujin said, “Yes, but there are a _few_ things about the League that he has yet to convince me of.”

            Chase’s smile returned with the same chill that permeated their mountain home. “Oh, Temujin, how we have missed your wit.”

            “Come now, gentleman, you may exchange pleasantries later,” Ducard interceded. “Damien will excuse us while we refresh ourselves after our long journey.”

            “Yes, sir,” Chase said with a slight bow, stepping out of their path. “I am prepared for your debrief whenever you are available.”

            “Very good. Thank you, Damien.”

            Bane exchanged a final glance with the man and perceived a strong, private glint of defiance. Following Bane and Ducard, Temujin grumbled again in his native tongue, and Bane had a strong suspicion that the words formed a curse.

#

            Bane, as always, ate alone in his room. Even Talia knew not to attempt to enter at such a time, though she had often tried, as she did today, eager to learn of his trip. Bane almost allowed her in this evening because he had missed her so greatly, but in the end he begged her patience until he was finished eating. Whenever she had looked upon his unmasked face, he saw the horrible guilt she still harbored over the sacrifice he had made for her and the suffering he now endured because of it. Several times, especially early on, the sight of his injuries brought her to tears. Never did he want her to feel culpable, and though he knew he could not erase her regrets, he could at least spare her from seeing such a blunt reminder. As well, he could spare himself from her tears, for their appearance always took him back to the day of her mother’s murder when she had sobbed inconsolably in his arms.

            Once he had eaten, he resupplied the mask’s canister, but before he could don the apparatus, a knock sounded at his door. Figuring the visitor to be Talia again, he said, “Just a minute.”

            “It’s Choden,” came the voice of his medical attendant.

            This one Bane knew he could not deny admittance, for Choden would enter anyway, and so he invited him in.

            After closing the door behind him, the Tibetan hurried over, saying, “Wait, wait. Let me see.”

            Bane knew after all these days that if there was anyone he could be comfortable around without his mask it should be Choden. Yet, for some reason, the days he had been gone from the monastery had given him a fresh self-consciousness, perhaps because of all those expressions of revulsion from strangers during his time away. From where he sat on the edge of his bed, he avoided Choden’s eyes as the man pulled a chair in front of him. Then the attendant went to the small, adjoining bathroom to wash his hands and don sterile gloves before returning to the chair.

            Examining first Bane’s mutilated nose, Choden asked, “Did you apply the salve twice a day, as I instructed?”

            Bane knew better than to lie to the intuitive little man. “Whenever I could,” then when Choden pinned a reproachful look upon him, he hurried to add, “I made sure I did it at least once a day.”

            Choden tsked and mumbled in his mother tongue as he moved on to Bane’s mouth. “Open. Not wide, not wide,” his reminder came as pain caused Bane to automatically obey. “There. Yes, good. Ah… Some bleeding.”

            “When I eat.”

            “And you have been eating only what I gave you permission to eat? What I sent with you?”

            “Yes.”

            “Hmm. Yes. It is troublesome. I had hoped this would stop by now. Close.” He grunted. “Did you irrigate your mouth after every meal while you were gone?”

            “Choden,” he said with a hint of exasperation. “It’s not as if I was always in a place where—”

            “Now, now, now,” the Tibetan admonished with a raised finger. “I can see that a few days away from my eyes you have become lax.” He sat back in the chair, wearing that familiar reproving expression that reminded Bane so much of his mother when she used to scold him.

            Bane could not help but laugh.

            “Oh, yes,” Choden grumbled. “Ha, ha. Very funny. But the one who so foolishly refused proper medical care when it could have done him good now must listen to a former sheepherder for medical advice if he expects to remain without infection. It is still early in your recovery, Bane.”

            Conjuring enough penitence to earn an end to Choden’s harangue, Bane reached for the mask. Choden swiped it out of his hands and began examining it inside and out.

            “You disinfected this daily as I instructed?”

            “Of course.”

            Choden grunted again, muttered, “‘Of course,’ says he. So I should believe him? Well…” He glanced at his patient. “And how did it perform?”

            Bane frowned, his fingers twitching, eager to put the mask back on; he had only injected a small dose of morphine before eating his meal. “It wanted to slip a bit in the heat.”

            “Hmm, yes, I was afraid of that. The design needs to be altered so it doesn’t just hug the front and sides of your head but the top of your head as well.”

            Bane envisioned something resembling a knight’s helmet, some medieval monstrosity that made him even more frightening than he already appeared. “Well,” he stammered, “how often will I be in places that hot?”

            “Difficult to say, of course. But you want the mask to serve its purpose in all climates, especially if you are to become one of us, as I hear you now desire to be.” Choden’s brief glance easily showed his approval, and he fought away a proud smile as he carefully seated the mask for Bane.

            “The dirt made the fasteners hard to manage a couple of times,” Bane said.

            “Yes, also as I feared. They will have to be reengineered as well so they are better protected from the elements. And the seals? How did they perform, especially since you say it was slipping?”

            “I had to keep adjusting the tightness, especially when I went from the heat outside to inside where it was markedly cooler.”

            “Yes, expansion and contraction. Apparently the designer did not take that enough into consideration.” Choden carefully examined the mask now that it was once again where it belonged. “I will note all of this in my report to the good doctor. As you know, he was expecting that he would have to make modifications, especially once you were using it in a practical way.” His attention now lowered to the back brace that Bane wore once more. “And the brace? Was it comfortable enough?”

            “Not sure you can call such a contraption ‘comfortable,’ but, yes, it was comfortable _enough_ , though it was hot, of course.”

            “It did not chafe?”

            “Just a little. I used the talc you gave me.”

            Again Choden leaned back in his chair and studied his patient, and Bane could see the older man’s concerns shift. “And while you were gone, did you accomplish what you set out to do?”

            Bane frowned, for Choden had known the true purpose of his journey. “Mostly.”

            “But you are staying with us?”

            “Yes. Meeting my father…well, I think it’s best for both of us that I came back here.”

            Choden gave him an empathetic yet melancholy smile and a brief pat on his knee. “I am sure you are right, my friend.” He removed his gloves. “And, for my own part, let me say that I am pleased to see you back with us. I think you have much to offer.”

            Unexpected emotion caused Bane to pause before thanking him. Choden’s honest charity chased away some of his despondency.

            A knock upon the door interrupted them, and at Bane’s invitation, Ducard opened the door. He did not, however, enter.

            “Are you ready, Bane? Rā’s al Ghūl is waiting to meet you.”

            Bane’s surprised gaze went to Choden; he had not expected this introduction so soon after his arrival. Choden proffered a smile of encouragement then stood to leave.

            The attendant spoke as he crossed the small room, “Bane has given me several things to report to the mask’s designer for improvement. I will write to him immediately.”

            “Very good,” Ducard said. “Thank you, Choden.”

            The Tibetan bowed slightly before he conveyed one last, quick smile to bolster Bane’s confidence, then he left the room.

            Bane had changed into his usual monastic garb of loose-fitting dark shirt and pants. Standing, he added his tunic now and tied it closed with a fabric belt, happy to hide the brace. Just then, Talia squirted her way between Ducard and the doorjamb, a smile of triumph lighting the room.

            “Where are you going, _habibi_?” She captured Bane’s right hand and kissed his small finger, a digit that was permanently curled at the knuckle joint, having been injured during his last disastrous escape attempt. It was a familiar gesture she often provided as way of a salutation, especially now that she could not kiss his lips or cheeks.

            “I’m going to meet Rā’s al Ghūl with your father. Have you met him yet?”

            “Not yet. He just got here yesterday, and Sangye told me not to disturb him. He said I could meet him once Papa returned.” Persuasively she smiled up at her father. “May I come with you now, Papa?”

            Ducard’s scrutiny took in her unusually neat appearance. Bane had a feeling that she had somehow known his audience with Rā’s al Ghūl was about to take place. Behind the mask, he smiled at her cleverness. During their two months here, Talia had quickly become the eyes and ears of the monastery, always aware of what was happening, and learning as much about everyone there as she could, no doubt under the guise of childhood innocence, her charms endearing her to everyone there and thus opening them to her discreet mining. Of course, she had passed her knowledge along to Bane, just as he used to tell her about the various prisoners in the pit.

            “It’s as important to know your enemies as well as you know your friends,” he had once told her. “Sometimes it’s more important.”

            Bane now wondered what Talia had already uncovered about Damien Chase.

            Ducard’s hand rested gently, briefly upon his daughter’s dark head. “You may come if you promise to be on your best behavior.”

            “Of course, Papa.”

            “And you will speak only when you are spoken to. Do you understand?”

            “Yes, Papa.” This time when she smiled, she wrinkled her nose and barely stifled a giggle to defuse his solemnity.

            Ducard could not contain his own smile at this, and he picked her up and kissed her cheek, a gesture she instantly returned. “How I have missed you,” he said. “Come. We mustn’t be late.”


	12. Chapter 12

            The Great Hall with its warm, muted glow of candles lacked furniture, save for one large, ornately-carved chair set back within an alcove at the far end. It rested upon a small dais in front of three full length windows with equally ornate design, and was flanked by single windows that allowed the last vestiges of evening light to steal inward. The chair’s wood bore a golden hue, complimented by gold cushions. Until today, Bane had never seen anyone sit upon it and had been told that he was not to do so. Talia had once taken great delight in creeping over to the chair when they were alone and climbing onto its broad expanse where she then proclaimed herself queen.

            But now the chair could barely be seen beneath the flowing scarlet robes of the man who was there ensconced. He sat with his hands together, as if in a posture of prayer, heavy rings on each ring finger, his eyes closed. Older than Ducard, his head was completely bald, and his mustache—silver, as were his eyebrows—was shaved from his upper lip but left long on the ends, drooping below his chin. An Asian man from whom an aura of power emanated even in his peaceful attitude.

            When Ducard quietly closed the door behind them, the man’s eyes slowly opened. As his hands lowered to the arms of the chair, the candlelight burnished the golden silk lining of his mantle before the outer folds concealed it once more. He was alone in the room. Bane almost wondered if he had been there a short while ago when they had first arrived and had somehow blended into his surroundings.

            Talia stifled a tiny gasp when she saw the imposing figure. She clutched Bane’s hand and stood close to him. Stepping in front of them, Ducard put his hands together and bowed to the seated figure.

            “Welcome back, my friend,” Rā’s al Ghūl said in Urdu.

            “Thank you,” Ducard replied in the same language. “I was pleased to hear of your return as well. We have much to discuss.”

            “Indeed.” His eyes reached beyond Ducard as he continued in English, his accent bearing a distinct Asian flavor, “But first, introductions are in order. I am eager to meet our guests.”

            Ducard turned slightly to beckon Talia forward. She hesitated, still clinging to Bane’s hand. Bane tried to let go, but Talia refused his attempts until her father gave her a pointed look.

            “Do not be afraid, child,” Rā’s al Ghūl said with the hint of a smile, making Bane wonder if the man had children of his own. “I have heard that you are as brave as a lion.” His dark eyes crinkled as he teased, “Perhaps I have been misled?”

            Talia’s jaw tightened and she stepped forward. With another leading glance from her father, she placed her hands together and bowed. “You have not been misled, sir. Papa will tell you.”

            Bane had the distinct feeling that Rā’s al Ghūl already knew everything there was to know about Talia.

            Rā’s al Ghūl crooked a brown finger. “Come closer, Talia Ducard.”

            Talia swallowed and glanced at her smiling father before obeying. Bane watched with a mixture of pride and anxiety as she approached the regal figure, the creak of the floorboards providing the only sound in the room. When she stopped in front of the dais, Rā’s al Ghūl leaned forward, beckoned her the final step so that she was within reach, the small smile still warming his face. With one finger he tipped Talia’s chin up and stared into her eyes.

            “Ah, yes…you have your father’s eyes and your mother’s beauty.”

            Talia gasped. “You knew my mother?”

            “No, dear child. But I have seen her picture.” He sat slightly back, his hand returning to the armrest. “I understand that you are already a great warrior. The men tell me that you learn quickly and have bested many of them.”

            Talia glanced back at her father, blushing, and did not deny the exaggeration.

            “Perhaps in time,” Rā’s al Ghūl continued, “you will be as skilled as your father.”

            Talia beamed.

            “Now return to your father while I meet your famed protector.”

            Talia bowed and backed away several steps before turning to Ducard. She tossed a pleased smile at Bane as her proud parent put his arm around her shoulders.

            Rā’s al Ghūl summoned Bane forward with a brief wave of his fingers, the bejeweled ring reflecting the candlelight. Bane did not advance as far as Talia had, and there he made his bow.

            “Ducard and Choden have told me much about you.”

            This surprised Bane, for how much could Rā’s al Ghūl have learned in the brief time he had been back? Perhaps, Bane told himself, Ducard had been in communication with the League’s leader while he had been away. He wondered what had been said.

            “You have endured much. Indeed a lifetime of suffering already in your one score and five years. But it is not your endurance that impresses me as much as your selflessness in safeguarding Ducard’s child—indeed the League’s child—for so many years amidst such corruption and violence. A lesser man would have exploited the child for his own gain, especially after the lamented death of her mother.” Rā’s al Ghūl leaned forward as if to share a secret. “Talia’s importance to the League cannot be overstated, nor can the value of her preservation.”

            Rā’s al Ghūl’s words concerned Bane, though he did his best to conceal his unease. Surely the man was not intimating that they would in any way manipulate Talia themselves. No, he told himself; his years of protecting Talia had made him hyper-sensitive. That was all there was to his feelings.

            “She’s but a child,” Bane heard himself protest.

            “Yes.” Rā’s al Ghūl nodded, unblinking. “But she will grow, she will learn skills that will further the cause of justice. As will you, my young friend.”

            Bane could not help but interject, “But I am an adult. I’ve made my own decision. Talia hasn’t made hers yet; she’s too young to understand what it means—”

            Rā’s al Ghūl’s displeased glance reached for but an instant to Ducard whose own discontentment Bane could now feel. He cautioned himself, fearful that his request to join the League would now be reconsidered in a less favorable light.

            “Our decisions are not our own, Bane,” Rā’s al Ghūl used his name like a weapon, a glint now in his eyes. “Our decisions are the League’s, and we must obey for the good of all, not for the narrow satisfaction of one individual. Rest assured, we are confident that in time the daughter of Henri Ducard shall willingly follow the path that has been prepared for her.”

            Bane’s fingers twitched. How could anything be prepared for Talia when Ducard had only recently learned of her existence? Bane fought to keep the question to himself for now. There would be time for answers later, after he had blended into the ranks of these enigmatic men and earned their trust.

            Rā’s al Ghūl’s expression softened, and an indulgent smile erased the edge of tension that had crept between them. “You have spent too many years with only one purpose, my friend. Here you will learn of a much wider world. Your allegiance to the child is indeed admirable, but now it is time for you to submit to her father’s wishes for her future, as he is her true guardian and a man of greater wisdom than you. This point is crucial if you are to focus upon your own training…if you are to become one of us. Do you understand?”

            Bane tried to smooth away the wrinkles of consternation from his expressive forehead. “Yes, sir. I understand.”

            Rā’s al Ghūl relaxed back in his chair. “Then you may begin your training as long as Choden has cleared you to do so. He will continue to monitor your health closely. You must be able to meet our requirements. If you cannot, then you must find your own way in the world.”

            “Yes, sir. I won’t let you down.”

            Rā’s al Ghūl’s nod was barely discernable, his expression hopeful but not completely convinced. His doubts, however, did not discourage Bane; they motivated him.

            To Ducard, Rā’s al Ghūl said, “I believe Temujin, if he is willing, would be an apt teacher for our young friend. Do you agree?”

            “Yes, sir. I believe Temujin will be honored by such a request.”

            “He will remain with us?”

            “He is not yet certain.” Ducard smiled. “Perhaps Bane can help me convince him.”

            “Indeed,” Rā’s al Ghūl said. “Temujin thinks highly of Talia’s protector. I’m sure you can be persuasive.”

            “I will try, sir,” Bane said, hiding his disappointment. Though he was pleased to have someone as familiar and steadfast as Temujin train him, he had actually expected Ducard to be his instructor.

            “Very well,” Rā’s al Ghūl said with a slight bow of his head. “Then tomorrow, if Choden allows, you will begin.”


	13. Chapter 13

            Darkness came early and quickly in the mountains. Once the sun dipped below the peaks to the west, the monastery settled into peaceful repose. It was during this time—with the day’s work done and the evening meal eaten—that the men socialized. On the ground level of the building where Bane and the others were housed, the common area with its long table and large, roaring fireplace was the gathering place. Here men talked and told stories of their homelands or sang or played games of chance (though monetary gambling was forbidden, as was excessive wine consumption, the monastery’s only form of alcohol). It was to this gathering that Talia urged Bane to accompany her after their audience with Rā’s al Ghūl.

            “You go, _habibati_ ,” he said. “I’m too tired.”

            Her lips pursed in a disappointed pout where she stood on the threshold of his room, watching him.

            Bane laughed. “That look won’t work on me tonight. Why don’t you ask your father to go with you? Or Jin?”

            “Because I want you. You can tell everyone about your journey. I want to hear about your papa.”

            Bane’s smile died behind the mask. “I’m afraid that’s nothing I want to share with strangers.”

            “They aren’t strangers. They’re our friends. You know them all. Well, most of them, except for Damien and his men. And I want to give you your present.”

            “Present?”

            “Yes, I made you a present while you were gone. But I wanted you to open it in front of everyone so they can see it, too.”

            Thinking fast, Bane countered, “But won’t the others be jealous? Did you make presents for them as well?”

            She smiled, indulgent, as if he were a daft child. “Of course not, _habibi_. They haven’t been gone like you were.” She sobered. “Jamyang said that if I made you a present, then you would come back to me.”

            Absently she fingered the thin leather belt that kept her tunic closed. Bane crouched in front of her so he could see her downturned gaze. He tipped her chin up so that their gazes met, and for the first time he fully saw the anxiety that had built in her since he had left.

            Softly he said, “You didn’t have to make me a present to bring me back here. I’ll never leave you, _habibati_ , not unless you want me to.”

            Her smile was distracted as her fingers trailed along the mask.

            “After I’m trained, though, there will be times when I have to go away, just like your father. But I’ll always come back.”

            “Promise?”

            “I promise.”

            Talia slipped her arms around his neck, and he drew her close, feeling guilty for his absence having troubled her.

            To distract her and renew her happy mood, he said, “Why don’t you fetch my present, and I will open it here? Then you can go downstairs with your father.”

            “He went to talk to Damien.”

            “Well, perhaps he will be back by the time I’m done opening my present.” He knew his eyes easily reflected the smile that the mask hid from her because she smiled back. “Go on,” he urged.

            Talia scurried off, and by the time Bane had sat upon his bed and removed his shoes, she was back. She raced across the room with a small box in hand and sprang upon the mattress, purposefully bouncing. She set the box beside him, then wrapped her arms around his neck from where she knelt behind him.

            “Open it!”

            He chuckled at her impatience and took the box into his lap. Twine had been used to secure the lid, and a small flower also made of twine and dyed yellow had been affixed for decoration. When he untied the bow and set the lid aside, Talia giggled and swiped the flower up to stick it upon his head. Bane laughingly protested, but when he tried to remove it, Talia thwarted his attempts.

            “Look inside,” she urged.

            Surrendering to her decoration, he returned his attention to the box, eager to see what lay inside. He had never received a present before… Well, at least not one giftwrapped. There had been his stuffed bear, Osito, when he had been a boy, a toy his mother had sacrificed much to acquire through bribing the soldiers who resupplied the prison.

            “You gave me paper?” he teased, pawing through the shredded material that hid the contents of the box.

            “No, silly. Keep looking.”

            His fingers bumped against a couple of items, and he pulled the last of the paper away. There at the bottom of the box were two skeins—one brown, one blue—and a crochet hook.

            “I spun the yarn all by myself,” Talia announced proudly. “Choden showed me how. Then I dyed it. And he helped me make the hook; I used my knife—the one you gave me in prison. Do you like it? It’s just like the one Mama had, isn’t it? Like the one you used to have, too.”

            Thoughtfully Bane turned the wooden crochet hook over and over in his hands, admiring it while his thoughts flew back to Melisande. He could see her so clearly, sitting at the front of her cell where the light was strongest, making a blanket for the baby that was growing in her belly. She had shown him how the craft was done, conveyed how working with his fingers could quiet his mind and make him—for a short time—forget about his troubles and stress while providing himself—and later Talia—with useful items to keep them warm.

            Quieter now, almost tentative, Talia repeated, “Do you like it, Bane?”

            He had to clear his throat before he could reply, “Yes, I like it very much, _habibati_. Thank you.”

            “Papa got me a present, too. See?” Talia pulled her sleeve up and thrust her left arm forward. There upon her tiny wrist was a thin leather bracelet affixed with a stunning sapphire. “It’s the color of my eyes. That’s what Papa said when he gave it to me.”

            “Indeed it is.” Bane set the crochet hook in his lap and perused the smooth stone. “It’s very beautiful, Talia.” As she rested her chin on his shoulder and encircled him with her arms again, he added, “Just like you.” He leaned his head against hers as he put the hook and yarn back into the box. “What shall I make first?”

            “A blanket. Winter is coming, and Papa says it gets mortal cold here.”

            “But I have your mother’s blanket to keep me warm.”

            “Then make _me_ a blanket.” Impetuously she kissed the side of his mask.

            “Very well. I will start tomorrow. For now, I’m going to lie down and read a bit while you find your father and enjoy the company downstairs.”

            “Are you sure you won’t come?”

            “Not tonight, little mouse. I’m too tired.”

            “When I come back, will you tell me about your papa?”

            “If I’m still awake, yes. If not, then tomorrow. I promise.”

            “If you’re asleep, I’ll wake you up,” she teased as she climbed off the bed.

            He chuckled and watched her skip from the room.

#

            Ducard’s low voice reached through Bane’s tenuous sleep, his admonishment penetrating the closed door: “No, Talia. It’s late. He will be asleep by now.”

            “He’s just reading. His lamp is still lit; I can see it.”

            “That doesn’t mean he’s awake. Now…enough. You should be in bed yourself, as should I. Come along.”

            Talia offered one last complaint before falling silent, no doubt after seeing a rebuke upon her father’s face. Their footfalls retreated, and Bane drifted far away.

            The dream came to him again, as it had every night since he had revisited the pit. He stood at the mouth of the shaft, but he was never alone there. Each time his victim was different. One night it had been his grandfather, another night Melisande, another night his father. This time it was Talia in his grasp, the utter blackness of the pit yawning beneath her dangling form. She pleaded with him not to drop her, her voice high and piercing, filled with fear. Terrified, he stared down at her but could not speak, could not soothe her. In vain he tried to pull her back to him, but his arms would not obey and his fingers continued to loosen. The more Talia struggled, the harder it was to maintain his grip until at last she slipped away from him and plunged downward, her screams barely heard over those of his own.

            “Bane! Bane, wake up!”

            The touch of her hands upon his shoulders, shaking him, brought him from the nightmare more so than even the urgency in her voice. With a violent shudder and a gasp, he awoke, his eyes instantly wide, staring up at Talia, his hands clutching at her arms, as if he could now stop her from that deadly fall. The lamp on his nightstand still flickered; he had fallen asleep before he could extinguish it. Its light played against Talia’s worried face. Before she could speak again, he sat up and clutched her to his bare, sweaty chest, relieved, his heart pounding against her.

            “I heard you shouting,” she said against his neck, holding him as tightly as her small arms allowed.

            If she had heard him, then surely many others had as well. No doubt he had awakened her father.

            “What were you dreaming about?”

            Bane swallowed hard. “Nothing…it was nothing.”

            She slowly pushed back from him, her hands light against his chest. “You can tell me, _habibi_ ,” she said with a tone of injury over his evasion.

            “You should go back to your room.” He kept his voice low in the hopes that the men who lived on either side of him—if awake—could not hear him. “Your father will be angry if he finds you here. Remember what he said.”

            “I don’t care. You were afraid, so I came. I’ll stay with you, then you won’t have the bad dream again.” Without waiting for permission, Talia drew her legs up onto the bed, reaching to pull her mother’s blanket back so she could crawl beneath it into the pocket of warmth created by Bane’s half-clad body.

            Without thinking, he shifted onto his side to give her more space as he had done on their small prison charpoy. “Talia, you can’t stay. You heard what your father said.”

            “He doesn’t know I’m here.” She reached for the oil lamp, but Bane’s hand kept her from extinguishing the flame.

            “Talia, listen to me—”

            “It’s okay—”

            “No. _Listen_ to me.” He refused to let go of her wrist. “It’s _not_ okay.”

            Her attempt to break free was only half-hearted, his tone demoralizing her. She fell back against his pillow, her eyes large and hurt.

            “Don’t look at me that way,” he groaned. “You know I’d let you stay, but you have to obey your father.”

            “Why?”

            “Because he’s your father. You must respect him.”

            “I do…most of the time.” An impish smile escaped her, and her free hand reached up to his mask, her index finger tracing an imaginary outline of his lips, as if the gesture would silence him.

            “Talia—”

            “Tell me about _your_ father, _habibi_. You said you got to meet him.”

            “I will tell you tomorrow.” He freed her arm. “You must go back to your room now.”

            “Please,” she drew out the word. “If you tell me, I’ll go back to my room after.”

            Exasperated, he propped himself on one elbow beside the pillow. He could not, of course, be angry with her, especially since he realized that she had artfully drawn his focus away from the nightmare. He studied her, waiting for her to submit and leave him, but of course she did not.

            “Please,” she whispered with that same smile.

            At last he sighed, “Very well.” And when she patted the pillow, he lay close beside her. She guided his arm behind her so that her head could rest against his bulging bicep.

            As briefly as he could, he told her about the encounter with his father. She listened intently, showing no signs of sleepiness, the light behind her glistening upon her short dark hair; he wondered if she would let it grow to the flowing length of her mother’s. As he talked, he gently stroked it, hoping the gesture would lull her to sleep so he could carry her back to her room.

            At the end of his narrative, Talia asked, “How come you didn’t go home with your papa?”

            Bane considered lying in order to hide his pain and embarrassment, but instead answered, “He didn’t ask me to. He has a family of his own now, and I’m a grown man.”

            “Didn’t you want to meet his family?”

            “No, not really. It’s best if they don’t know about me.”

            “Why? They would like you.”

            Bane tried to laugh. “Maybe when you are older, you will understand, _habibati_.”

            “What about your grandfather? Did you meet him?”

            “Yes.”

            “What was he like?”

            “Hmm. Well, let’s just say you wouldn’t have liked him.”

            “He was mean?”

            “He was…unpleasant…and selfish. I told you what he had done to my mother.”

            Talia nodded thoughtfully, her fingers caressing Melisande’s blanket. She drew it over his chest, as if its touch could console him. Of course she could sense his true feelings; he could see the awareness in her eyes.

            “I’m so glad Papa isn’t mean.”

            “Me, too.” Bane raised himself back up on one elbow. “Now I have told you what you wanted to hear, so it’s time for you to return to your own bed.”

            She softly moaned and buried her face in his chest. “But I’m nice and warm now. Aren’t you? Can’t I stay just this last time?”

            “Talia,” he used a stern tone that caused her to peek at him from beneath long eyelashes. “You can’t keep disobeying your father. And more importantly, you can’t favor me over him.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “Like earlier today when we arrived. You should have greeted your father first, not me. It hurt his feelings.”

            Talia lowered her gaze. “I didn’t mean to.”

            “I know you didn’t. But he is your father, your family, and I’m just—”

            “You’re family, too. Mama said so.”

            “Things were different then. Your father has been gracious enough to let me stay here. I don’t want to give him any reason to send me away.”

            “He would never send you away.”

            “If we displease him—”

            “No; he wouldn’t. I wouldn’t let him.”

            Bane put a finger to her lips, for her voice had grown stronger, adamant. “Let’s not test him. Now promise me you will not show me any favor over him when we are together.”

            “But I—”

            “Promise me.”

            She frowned and tried to avoid his unyielding stare, at last muttering, “I promise.”

            He trailed a finger down her nose. “Thank you.” He pulled the blanket back from her. “Now…off you go. Back to your bed. No more excuses.”

            She sighed in capitulation and moved with a sluggishness sure to try the patience of a saint.

            “Good night, _habibati_.”

            She hesitated beside the bed and solemnly said, “Papa would never send you away. He knows I would hate him if he did.”

            Bane frowned. “Don’t talk like that, Talia. Your father has done much for you…for us. You should be grateful. He loves you, and I know you love him.”

            Turmoil marred her dark face as she stared at her mother’s blanket.

            “Go back to your room, little mouse. I will see you in the morning.”

            Reluctantly, slowly she turned away and left him.


	14. Chapter 14

            “What is the verdict?” Temujin’s voice turned both Bane and Choden toward the doorway to Bane’s room. The Mongol stood there, unsmiling, oddly grave.

            Choden removed his latex gloves as Bane shrugged into his shirt. The Tibetan glanced toward his patient, said, “I would prefer that he have a few more days to regain more of his strength after his journey, but I know better than to expect compliance from this hard-headed one. So,” Choden gestured fruitlessly, “he is yours, my friend. But he is to wear his brace at all times, and you are to give him frequent rests. He will tire quickly because of the mask’s effect on his respiration, so for now you will limit his time to half the normal sessions.”

            “I’m fine, Choden,” Bane insisted.

            “You are fine only when I say you are fine.”

            Eager to abandon his fussing attendant, Bane started for the door, curious about Temujin’s seriousness.

            Temujin said nothing as they left the dormitory behind, heading not for the dojo as Bane had expected but instead along a corridor that would take them to the Great Hall where Bane had had his audience with Rā’s al Ghūl.

            Measuring the Mongol’s unusual silence, Bane ventured, “Were you strong-armed into this?”

            Temujin said nothing for a moment, then, “I regret that you must settle for me as your teacher.”

            “I’m glad it’s you; I’m honored.” The familiarity of his teacher also relieved Bane, for Temujin would understand the challenges presented by his debilities better than any other instructor here. Yet Bane kept this feeling of relief to himself, afraid it might subject Temujin to undue pressure.

            “As I told you before, there are those far more skilled than I who are also far more committed to the League than I. One of them should be your teacher.”

            “Rā’s al Ghūl seems to think highly of you. When I met him yesterday, he said he hopes that you will stay with the League.”

            Temujin grunted then muttered something in his native language.

            “Ducard wants you to stay as well.”

            “I will stay until my wife’s last murderer is located by Ducard’s assets, then I will leave to finish what was started years ago.”

            “I can come with you; I can help. I owe you that at least.”

            “You owe me nothing, Bane. We have helped each other equally since we first met in that God forsaken pit. What I do for you now, I do as a friend. And though I appreciate your offer, you will need to remain here in order to complete your training; where you stay and where you go are now no longer under your control but the League’s. Besides, what I have to do, I will do alone.”

            “Will you come back after that?”

            “I do not know.”

            “Well, I hope you do, and so does Talia. She would be crushed, you know, if you didn’t stay with us. You’re like an uncle to her. Well, what I imagine an uncle would be anyway.”

            Temujin glanced over his shoulder, and a slight grin crept into view. “It is no use, my young bull. I know Ducard and the League’s figurehead have set you up to persuade me to stay. But, rest assured, that decision will be mine and mine alone.”

            “I meant what I said—Talia and I want you to stay, regardless of what anyone else wants. You’re my friend.”

            “Friends are a luxury in our line of work, Bane. It is often better to have none. You have lost much already in life; I would hate for you to lose more.”

            Bane frowned, hoped that Temujin was not anticipating his own death in his efforts to avenge his wife. Wary of continuing this particular line of discussion, he instead asked, “Why aren’t we going to the dojo?”

            “First things first, my friend. Before you are able to prepare your body, you must first prepare your mind. So every day you will be up at six a.m. and meditate for at least an hour before we begin our physical regimen.” He halted outside the Great Hall. “Demons chase you in your dreams. I hear you at night, as do many others. You must learn to be at peace with yourself, including what others have done to you and what you have done to others. You must learn to be stronger than the demons.”

            Bane colored at the mortifying thought of others knowing of his night terrors. But there was no sense in denying them, especially when Temujin could perhaps help him overcome them; after all, no one here better understood what drove those nightmares. “It’s not just at night,” he admitted. “Sometimes I have…flashbacks…during the day.”

            “And what are these flashbacks about most of the time?”

            Bane gestured to his mask. “The day this happened.”

            Temujin nodded thoughtfully and opened the door. He led the way into the empty Hall where, as usual, candles burned throughout. Bane wondered who lit them and if they stayed burning always. The scent of incense slipped through the medicinal fog of the mask. His attention touched briefly upon the large chair at the far end of the room as he remembered the imposing figure who had sat there yesterday. Where was Rā’s al Ghūl now? And why had Temujin referred to him as a figurehead?

            As they sat on the floor beside one another, Bane asked, “Is Damien Chase one of the reasons why you might not stay?”

            “And what makes you ask such a thing?”

            “It was pretty clear yesterday that the two of you aren’t on good terms.”

            “He did not approve of me being allowed to leave the League. He felt I was dangerous, knowing all that I know and no longer being tied to Rā’s al Ghūl and his organization. But Ducard knew I would never betray them after I left.”

            “Ducard seems to like Chase.”

            “Chase is a very valuable asset to the League. As Ducard told you, Chase is his right-hand man.”

            “He’s an American?”

            “Yes. He is the son of an extremely wealthy man, a man who helps fund the League and utilizes its services on occasion. He has known Ducard many years. Damien was a troublesome boy and continued to be so as a young man. His parents tried to control him but could not. He attended Harvard, and though he graduated high in his class, he showed no interest in applying what he had learned. Against his parents’ wishes, he joined the military—special forces. In skill, he excelled, but in following orders he did not. Eventually he was discharged—not voluntarily, mind you—but he could not assimilate back into society. Turns out his one true skill is in killing. His father finally acknowledged that and asked Ducard to take him on. That was three years ago.”

            “So you’re telling me the League is actually made up of assassins?”

            “The members of the League are whatever Rā’s al Ghūl requires them to be. Assassins, spies, men of business, security. A wide range indeed.”

            “And what will I be?”

            “Only time will tell. But I am sure of one thing—you will be capable of much more than Damien Chase, and it is for that reason that Chase will despise you.”

            “Despise me?”

            “Yes. He very much enjoys his standing in the League…and in Ducard’s eyes. He looks up to Ducard as a father figure, especially considering all that he feels is lacking in his own father. And by now he has heard all about what you have done for Ducard and what Ducard has done for you. When Ducard is not around, Chase can be like a petulant, jealous child. He will feel threatened not only by your personal relationship with Talia—a relationship that adds value to you in Ducard’s eyes—but with your relationship with Ducard as well. And he will feel threatened by your skill.”

            “Why would he? I haven’t been trained yet.”

            “Because, my friend, he will see—as do I—that you have the potential to one day replace him as Ducard’s lieutenant. While Chase is indeed highly skilled in combat and covert operations, he lacks your intellect. Your wits coupled with your training will make you formidable indeed. Ducard may have a certain bond with Chase, but rest assured one’s value to the League will outweigh any emotional attachment when it comes to Talia’s father. He is a man of singular purpose.”

            Bane hesitated. “And what _is_ that purpose, Jin?”

            “That piece of your education will come from Rā’s al Ghūl, and no one else, least of all from someone on the fringes like me. I am responsible only for your training; at least the beginning of it. And speaking of that, we have wasted enough time as it is. Now…you will tell me more about these flashbacks and nightmares. Together we will unlock ways your mind can combat them. Repressing them will only be counterproductive. So before we begin our meditation, you will tell me everything that you can.”


	15. Chapter 15

            “ _Taijutsu_ will enable you to combat an armed enemy with nothing more than your body,” Temujin explained that first morning. “You will learn how to use an enemy’s own energy against him.”

            He and Bane stood side by side in the dojo, watching other men practice the “body skill” of _taijutsu_. While two instructors looked on, half a dozen students challenged one another, using a variety of grappling techniques in their efforts to best their opponents. Often the instructors broke in to verbally point out flaws in the students’ methods or to physically demonstrate correct technique.

            Bane watched in fascination, trying to understand everything at once, adrenaline already pumping through his veins at a splendid pace. His fingers twitched in anticipation of learning these new skills. In prison, Hans had taught him everything he knew about hand-to-hand combat, and Bane wished his friend were here now to see this type of fighting.

            “As you can see, the contact is always close,” Temujin explained. “Your opponent will most likely have a weapon—a gun or a knife—so you must keep him from using it, disarming him, if possible, by engaging him physically. You will use every part of your body—hands, feet, teeth...” He immediately caught his blunder and apologized before continuing, “This is not like the prize matches you fought in prison where the combatants were governed by certain rules, a code. No, in this there are no holds barred. It will be life or death. Speed and balance, even more so than brute strength. This will be the challenge for you, my young bull. You have a certain…hulking way about you. Very little grace, I am afraid. You are accustomed to might winning the day, but you will find that against men trained thusly, the size of the bull does not always matter.”

            “But out there,” Bane gestured toward the world beyond the monastery walls, “I won’t be fighting men like these.”

            “True enough, we are an elite force. However, do not be foolish in believing that you will not face men equally versed in various forms of combat. The world is full of men like Damien Chase who have had military training as well as other forms of attack and defense.”

            “Then what sets the League apart?”

            Temujin considered him for a thoughtful moment, and Bane could tell he was deciding the best way to convince him of something he had yet to fully experience. “Do you remember when Ducard rescued us and you confronted Doctor Assad about your grandfather?”

            “Of course.”

            “You threatened Assad’s life with Ducard’s pistol. You were ready to kill a man who had been your friend for many years, all in the name of justice for your mother. Your devotion to discovering the identity of her condemner impressed Ducard. Do you remember what he said to you then?”

            Bane tried to think back to that great and terrible day, but because his memories of Assad were fraught with so much confusion and emotional conflict, he had to struggle to conjure up the exact words from that confrontation.

            “‘The will to act,’” Temujin reminded. “Ducard will also tell you that the _training_ is nothing, while the _will_ is everything. That will is what separates the League of Shadows from the mere mercenaries of the world. Those men are nothing but hired thugs, employed by men who use others to do their dirty work so that they do not have to sully their hands. _Skilled_ thugs, mind you, yes; but their will, their motivation will only go so far. Their own needs will always come before that of those who hire them. The League is different. These men have left their sense of self behind, and because the collective is more prized than the individual, they will never hesitate in their work, they will never fail to sacrifice their very lives if the mission requires it. That is why I left—my personal mission to avenge my wife was more important to me than the League. Men like Damien Chase cannot understand that; he has never loved another human being more than himself or his ideal.”

            “ _I_ understand it,” Bane quietly said.

            “Of course you do, my friend.” Temujin offered an appreciative smile. “And so does Ducard.” He fell silent for a moment as they continued to observe the fighters, and his smile drifted away. Softly he continued, “But the reason for your understanding may also be the reason that you cannot ultimately remain here.”

            Surprised, Bane asked, “What do you mean?”

            Stepping even closer, Temujin said, “Talia. Your love for her is—and always will be, I suspect—a force far stronger than any fraternity. Since her birth, you have spent every day with one focus—protecting her. It is ingrained in you. But if you are to join these men, truly join them, you will have to put the League above even Talia. Chase and Rā’s al Ghūl will not allow it to be any other way or you will be rejected.”

            Bane’s fingers twitched, and his heart rate increased over this disturbing disclosure. “But what about Ducard? You can’t tell me that the League is more important to him than his own daughter.”

            “In truth, I cannot tell you with any certainty about Henri Ducard’s inner emotions, but believe me when I say the discovery of his daughter’s existence has presented him with a monumental challenge. For years he thought Melisande—his great love—was lost to him. It was the anger and pain of grief that made it so easy for him to become what and who he is today. But Talia…her presence and what— _who_ —it signifies to Ducard has certainly both overjoyed and troubled him. You better than anyone can understand his conflict—you are thankful that Talia has been united with her father yet sorrowful that you have to learn to let go of her. Letting go of someone you love more than your own life…” Temujin smiled sadly and faced the fighters struggling before them. “Well, you know I understand what that is like.”

            Bane, too, faced forward, his brow deeply furrowed as he tried to grasp all that Temujin had said and intimated. “Rā’s al Ghūl referred to Talia as the League’s child,” Bane murmured. “He said she is important to them, as if she’s a possession, not a human being.” He did not conceal his irritation, for he knew with Temujin there was no need. “Why would he say such a thing, especially in front of her father?”

            Temujin grunted. “Ducard took a risk bringing the three of us here. There is already a stigma about me. And you…well, yes, you saved his daughter and for that he has rewarded you, but you are still a stranger, an unknown quantity to him and the League. This is a closely guarded society, as you have no doubt gathered, with many secrets. For Ducard to introduce an outsider, he has potentially jeopardized not only himself but all others in their network. If another member of the League—even Chase—did the same, Ducard would not be tolerant. And to have also brought a child, a _girl_ child, even his own… Others may begin to doubt his ability to think objectively, to continue to put the needs of the many before the needs of the few. And such doubts can erode his status. If he fails to uphold the League’s values, not only will he be subject to judgment, but so will you and Talia.” Temujin glanced at him. “So I suspect Ducard has seen a way to protect his daughter by making her valuable to the League.”

            Bane bristled. “She’s just a child, an innocent—”

            Temujin’s discreet hand on Bane’s arm managed to hold him in check. “Would you rather see her cast out into the world? Perhaps sent to her grandmother?”

            Bane stiffened at the thought of Melisande’s brutal father. “Ducard would never allow that to happen. _I_ would never allow it.”

            “Then you must trust that whatever Ducard has in mind for his daughter will be beneficial to her. She has her path, and you have yours, my friend.” Temujin freed his arm and straightened. “And right now your path awaits.” He gestured toward the other students. “Shall we begin?”


	16. Chapter 16

            The rest of the morning was spent in the dojo where Temujin painstakingly explained and demonstrated a variety of techniques. Bane expected to quickly master at least the most basic _taijutsu_ , but his instructor proved him wrong. Though he indulged Bane’s attempts time and time again, Bane always found himself pinned, sometimes painfully, by the smaller man. And to make matters worse, Temujin seemed to be playfully enjoying his display of superiority, as were the other students.

            “Humility, my friend,” the Mongol said into his ear while uncomfortably restraining Bane’s arms behind him, “is a part of _seishinteki ky_ _ōy_ _ō_ —your spiritual refinement, the first of the eighteen disciplines of _ninjutsu_. We have much work to be done there…as well as here.” He tapped a finger against Bane’s head, chuckled then freed his sweating student.

            “If you separate my shoulders, meditation is about all I’ll be able to do,” Bane complained drily, carefully flexing his arms. He had separated his right shoulder during his first escape attempt from the pit, an old injury that he had almost forgotten until Temujin’s efforts to turn him into a human pretzel had so rudely reminded him.

            One of the doors to the dojo opened, and Akar—a thirteen-year-old Bhutanese boy—appeared. He stood upon the threshold, politely waiting to be noticed, fidgeting with his eye patch. Akar lacked not only his left eye but his left arm as well, having suffered the loss of both years earlier to a wolf attack that had also killed his father. The orphaned child had been found near death, and villagers had carried him to the monastery in search of healing. Akar had been here ever since, helping Jamyang with cooking and other domestic duties.

            “Your salvation has arrived, Bane,” Temujin grinned when he saw Akar. “Time for our midday meal, it would appear.”

            The scarring on Akar’s face made his smile of assent slightly lopsided. He gave a small bow and retreated to resume his duties.

            Bane watched him go while retrieving his shirt. During the weeks of his recovery, Bane had come to know Akar little by little. The boy was notoriously shy, even around Talia, no doubt because of his deformities, but over time he had warmed to Bane, spending a few minutes talking when he would come to Bane’s room with fresh linens for his bed or, more recently, with his meals. Bane figured his own injuries made Akar feel more comfortable with him than with the physically sound men who otherwise surrounded him.

            All in the dojo filed out, making their way with much talk and stress-relieving laughter to the common room in the dormitory. The welcoming scent of food—venison in particular—greeted them. Rations at the monastery were a combination of wild game, domestic animals, and foodstuffs carried in from various outside sources. Jamyang and Akar also tended a small greenhouse where herbs and other hardy produce grew with the help of artificial light. Talia took great joy in assisting them. As soon as Bane had been able to leave his bed, she had taken him by the hand to show him the greenhouse. After so many years of subsisting on very little in prison, seeing and tasting such fresh, organic wonders amazed them.

            Bane heard Talia’s voice now from above as she left her tutor and descended to the common room. But as she drew closer, Bane did not hear her light tread; instead he heard the booted footfalls of a man, an unfamiliar step. Curious, Bane waited for her instead of directly heading up to his room.

            Down the last flight of steps came Damien Chase, a grin on his face and Talia upon his shoulders, laughing at something, her face alight in the room’s dim atmosphere. As usual, her lyrical laughter drew smiles from all who settled around the large table. Bane’s smile, however, died a quick death at the foreign sight of Talia with Chase. Chase witnessed this swift transition, and his own grin broadened.

            “Bane!” Talia cried. “What did Jin teach you today?”

            The mask’s opiate was swiftly wearing off, and Bane blamed that for his instant irascibility. “I will tell you about it this evening,” he replied as he started past them toward the stairs.

            “Bane?” Talia’s tone changed, and he knew that she sensed his mood. “If I come eat with you, you can tell me now. Bane…?”

            “Eat with him?” Chase echoed. “You aren’t eating with us, Bane?”

            The question halted Bane in the doorway, his shoulders suddenly tight with tension, the pain from his injuries surging. He hesitated an instant before turning, the discomfort making his eyes sting. Chase was setting Talia down upon a bench at the table. Her gaze reflected regret at broaching this subject in front of the others. Though the men at the table were busy filling their plates, talk had subsided, and several glanced his way, including Akar who was pouring water into the men’s glasses.

            “I eat in my room,” Bane said plainly, fingers twitching as Chase sat beside Talia.

            “Because of the mask?” The American gave a slight snort. “I’m sure many here have seen worse. Your face won’t cause any of us to lose our appetite. Will it, boys?”

            An uncomfortable rumble of agreement came from those at table.

            “It’s what I prefer,” Bane said coldly.

            “Why, these are your brothers now, Bane,” Chase said with exaggerated indulgence as his hand swept in an arc of inclusion. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Join us.”

            Talia’s worried eyes were large and filled with a mixture of hope and apology.

            “Perhaps another day,” Bane said then turned for the stairs.

            He stalked upward to his room, fingers still restless, facial injuries searing. A part of him wanted to run to get to the morphine vial so he could inject the drug before the mask’s supply ran out. But he forced control, focused on his breathing, tried to calm it while drawing upon the last of the mask’s vapor. If he quickened his gait, he ran the risk of his swiftness being misinterpreted by those below.

            He cursed himself for his reaction to Chase, especially in front of everyone; thankfully Ducard had not been present. Though Bane’s immediate impression of Chase’s inquisition was negative, he told himself that he did not know the man, that perhaps his invitation had been genuine. Yet Bane’s years of experience reading the subtle signs of other men in prison told him that Chase had been baiting him, expressing dominance like a wolf pissing on a tree to claim his territory.

            Bane knew, however, that his blood had been stirred not so much by Chase’s posturing as by the sight of Talia with the American, smiling and laughing as she used to do in the pit when he would carry her upon his shoulders or back, her voice ringing in his ears, reminding him so much of Melisande. Such a reaction to Chase’s display was illogical to Bane; after all, since first coming to the monastery he had often witnessed other members of the League interacting with Talia in similar ways. Why had he immediately raised his hackles at the image of this particular man amusing Talia?

            Then he remembered Temujin’s words about Chase never loving anyone besides himself. Why would such a man even bother to entertain a child if not for selfish reasons? Yet, Bane wondered, should he operate merely upon Temujin’s opinion? After all, the Mongol had been absent from the League for two years and had known Chase for only one prior to that. Perhaps Temujin’s view was understandably tainted.

            Bane hurried into his room. By the time he reached for the bottle in the bathroom medicine cabinet, his hands were shaking so badly that he almost dropped it. He compelled himself to pause, shut his eyes, took a deep breath. Then, with a sterile syringe, he drew forth the dosage. As he extricated the needle, the bottle slipped from his trembling hand and shattered against the sink. Shards of glass and spatters of morphine scattered across the small room. Bane cursed, louder than he desired.

            “Are you all right?” Aker’s voice caused Bane to jump and stifle another oath.

            “I’m fine,” Bane nearly snapped.

            Akar set down the food tray on the bedside table and came to the door of the bathroom. His gentle brown eye measured everything in an instant. “If you would like,” the boy offered, his English tinged with a Bhutanese accent, “I can administer the injection. I know how. Choden showed me…even with just my one hand.”

            Bane brushed past him. “I can do it.” Sitting upon the bed, he hastily injected the drug into his vein and closed his eyes, waited those torturous seconds.

            Akar set about cleaning the spill in the bathroom.

            Bane opened his eyes as the morphine rode in upon him with its relief, taking away his anger as well as his pain. “I can do that, Akar. Go back downstairs.”

            “It will only take a moment.”

            Bane would have again rebuked him, but he did not want the boy to return downstairs with tales of his boorishness. So, as Akar made quick work of the spill, Bane changed his splattered clothes.

            “Did you cut yourself?” Akar asked as he emerged from the bathroom.

            “No.”

            “Was that the last bottle?”

            “I’m afraid so.”

            “I will fetch more for you from Choden.”

            “Akar,” Bane’s call halted the boy at the door. “There’s no need for it right now. This evening before supper will be sufficient.”

            Akar nodded then lingered, his gaze cast downward, frowning.

            Eager to be alone, Bane asked, “What is it?”

            Shifting his weight self-consciously, Akar frowned deeper. “Do you think we’ll ever get used to it?”

            “Used to what?”

            Akar faltered, almost turned away then said, “The way they look at us.”

            Bane sighed, pushed aside his own troubles. He gestured. “Come here…away from the door.”

            For a moment he feared that the boy would flee, but at last Akar shuffled back to the foot of the bed. Bane almost invited him to sit down but knew the boy should return to his duties downstairs.

            Quietly Bane asked, “When you were attacked by the wolf, it was because you were trying to save your father, wasn’t it?”

            Akar’s narrow eye flashed at him in surprise, for he had never spoken to Bane about that day. “I—I don’t remember.”

            “I think you do.” Bane paused but saw that the boy would not offer more, and he wondered if perhaps he should not have ventured upon this ground. “When you told others the story, you told them that your father died protecting you. Isn’t that right?”

            Another disturbed dart of the eye, then Akar nodded shallowly.

            “But it was the other way around, wasn’t it? The wolf attacked your father first, and you tried to save him.”

            Akar shuffled one foot, murmured, “I was too small.”

            “But you tried.”

            The boy nodded, sniffed, swallowed hard. “How did you know?”

            “Because you are here and your father is dead. I think the wolf allowed you to live because you were brave, because you were protecting your family.”

            Akar looked fully at him now, his jaw loosening. Bane saw the survivor’s guilt—the same guilt that reflected in Talia’s eyes—before it slightly dissipated from the boy.

            “So,” Bane said, “the next time one of the men looks at you that way, remind him that you once faced down a wolf. I’d hazard that none of them can say the same.”

            Akar did not smile often, but his pleased expression now changed his entire appearance so much that the scarring seemed diminished. He stood straighter.

            “Now go on back downstairs or Jamyang will scold you.”

            Akar rose on the balls of his feet, as if Bane’s compliment somehow made him larger, more mature. For a moment he seemed at a loss for words then managed, “Thank you, Bane.” He hurried to the door but there halted once again, his hand on the frame. He appeared to struggle with what he wanted to say before asking, “You aren’t afraid of Damien, are you?”

            “No.”

            Akar smiled again. “Good.” Then he left, closing the door behind him.


	17. Chapter 17

            Over the next week, Bane progressed in his training, but the pedestrian pace frustrated him. Temujin had to constantly remind him that patience was required, that no one gained such skills in hours, days, or even weeks. The mask provided further vexation, hindering Bane’s breathing during his exertions, often forcing him to the sidelines. Multiple times he wanted to rip the cursed thing off and throw it at his teacher, especially when Temujin assured him with maddening calm that the next version of the mask would no doubt improve upon this flaw.

            “You don’t know that,” Bane had snapped.

            “You must have faith,” Temujin insisted. “Choden and Ducard will not give up until you have what you require.”

            “What if ‘what I require’ is impossible?”

            Temujin shook his head. “There are few things that are impossible if one has the drive and resources to acquire it.” He sat beside Bane on a bench. “Let us take a break. Another hour of meditation before we resume. You need to relax and refocus. You must learn to control these negative impulses, otherwise you will not advance in the way you so desire.”

            At least once a day Ducard and Chase—together or singly—would come to the dojo, watching from the wings, speaking quietly only to one another, their gazes intent upon the students. Ducard often adopted his now-familiar stance—back straight, head up, hands lightly gripping the lapels of his tunic or vest. Bane would try to read his gaze, but Ducard was skilled at hiding his reactions to what he witnessed before him. To Bane’s chagrin, Ducard’s visits unnerved him. He found himself trying to impress Talia’s father, thereby assuring him that his decision to allow him to join the League was not a mistake.

            Although Temujin viewed this desire as a waste of time, he found a way to use Ducard’s presence—along with the single, silent appearance by Rā’s al Ghūl—as a way to further Bane’s education. He explained, “I want you to use such opportunities to hone your focus. You need to learn how to shut out all distractions.”

            Sometimes one of those distractions was Talia. She would find some excuse to slip away from her tutor and her studies and escape to the dojo. Usually she knew better than to make her presence overtly known for fear of being sent back to Sangye. She would mainly hang about in the shadows, but now and then she could not contain her enthusiasm and would either call encouragement to Bane or step forward to challenge one of the students or instructors. Occasionally, to break the intensity of the session, the men would indulge her, as they did this day, allowing her to display her quick, agile moves against opponents who willingly submitted to her skills.

            “The young absorb things so much quicker than adults,” Temujin pointed out to Bane as they watched Talia’s swift, well-aimed kicks, listened to her passionate war cries. “They have no true sense of fear and thus they fight with fluid abandon. You, too, must learn this skill, this total belief in yourself and your abilities. You must learn never to question them. To question them is to weaken them.”

            “Well, well, well,” Damien Chase’s voice filled the dojo. “What do we have here?”

            Bane and the other students, who had been watching Talia from the sidelines, turned to see Chase standing just inside the door.

            “So this is where Sangye’s wayward pupil escaped to.”

            With a surprised gasp, Talia scrambled up from the mat where her opponent had feigned submission. Quickly she adopted a contrite expression, her hands folded in front of her.

            Chase sauntered up to her, grinning. “I figured I’d find you here, princess.”

            “Please don’t tell Sangye, Damien. I promise I’ll go back in just a minute.”

            He brought a thoughtful hand to his chin. “I’ll make you a deal, princess. If you can pin me in less than five minutes, I won’t breathe a word that I saw you here.”

            “That’s not fair,” Talia scowled. “You’re too big.”

            “Hasn’t your instructor taught you that size does not matter?”

            Her cheeks reddened.

            Chase knelt in front of her and held his hands out to either side. “Is this better?”

            The men around Bane and Temujin laughed.

            Talia eyed the American warily, then could resist his grin no longer, flashing one of her own just before she leapt at him with a shout.

            Bane watched as Chase pretended to have great difficulty fending off Talia’s attack. She kicked and parried Chase’s soft blows, dancing around him on light feet, obvious delight shining upon her fierce countenance. Bane tried to take pleasure in the sight of her so alive and happy, but instead he felt uneasy and agitated, fingers twitching.

            At one point Chase allowed her to nearly pin him, but then he broke free and scooped her up. She squealed in surprise as he smoothly flipped her head over heels and cushioned her fall to the mat. There he pinned her, laughing along with everyone except Bane as she struggled in frustration.

            “Let me up!” she demanded.

            Bane started to step forward onto the mat, but Temujin’s swift hand clamped onto his wrist. The Mongol shot him a sharp, staying look.

            “Let you up?” Chase echoed. “All right then.”

            He stood, drawing Talia with him, and lifted her upside down above his head. Her half-hearted protests quickly turned to giggles. Blood rushing to her face, she looked for Bane, who forced a smile for her benefit.

            Temujin stepped onto the mat, saying, “All right, little one. It is time for you to leave us. You must get back to your studies, and we must continue with ours.”

            “Now, now, Genghis Khan,” Chase scolded as he set Talia on her feet. “You know the old saying: all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.”

            “Then what is your excuse, Chase?” Temujin said with a sarcastic smile.

            “Ah, very droll, Genghis. Since you seem to hold me in such low regard, perhaps you could give me a refresher course. Or have you grown soft, lying about in prison?”

            Temujin’s smile fled. “I have no time to waste on you.”

            “Oh, come now, Genghis. I’m sure Talia would enjoy watching you school me, wouldn’t you, princess? One quick match then she promises to return to Sangye, yes?”

            Talia grinned. “Yes, I promise, Jin.”

            Temujin seemed on the verge of refusing, but then said, “Very well,” drawing pleased responses from the others, including Bane.

            Talia hurried over to stand beside Bane as the two men stripped to their waists. She smiled up at him. “No one can beat Jin, can they, _habibi_?”

            “I hope not,” Bane muttered into his mask, his reply lost among the interested voices around them.

            With the combatants’ upper bodies exposed, it was clear who carried the greater muscle mass. To bolster his confidence in Temujin’s chances, Bane harkened back to the day Temujin had arrived in the pit prison. The Mongol had easily dispatched two larger prisoners who had attacked him. Shortly after that, he had defeated—with Bane’s help—those same men who sought revenge with the aid of two others.

            Temujin and Chase now faced one another, bodies crouched, hands at the ready. The spectators fell silent, even Talia, as the two men sized one another up, unblinking. All sarcasm had left the big American, replaced by cold intensity.

            Chase made the first move, springing forward, but Temujin eluded him. The Mongol did not attempt a counterattack, instead simply waiting, drifting backward. Bane could see the caution in his friend’s eyes, the respect for his opponent’s abilities, as he bided his time. Chase, however, was not so patient. He struck again, and this time Temujin met his attack. Their arms and legs worked together to strike, parry, strike again, but neither man could gain an advantage. They separated, sweat now appearing on their foreheads. Chase circled, Temujin gliding gracefully around to always keep his enemy in front of him, attention never wavering.

            For the next five minutes, the two struggled to throw and pin one another. Twice Temujin immobilized Chase for a brief moment, but somehow the man discovered an escape route each time.

            “I see you’ve managed to maintain your abilities,” Chase said. “A pity you don’t have the dedication to put them to good use.”

            “So you do not consider instruction to be of good use?”

            “Guess that depends on who you’re instructing.”

            The anger betrayed by Temujin’s face cost him speed in his next strike. This brief hesitation left him too open, giving Chase the opportunity to grasp his right arm with both hands and turn into him. This move unbalanced the Mongol enough for Chase to throw him onto his back. Chase never lost his grip on Temujin’s arm as he dropped to the mat with him. In one fluid movement, the American’s left leg crossed over to pin his foe’s left arm while at the same time locking against Temujin’s neck. Simultaneously Chase restrained his opponent’s right arm against his own chest while his right knee drove into Temujin’s back, forcing the smaller man into an awkward arched position which, in turn, increased the vice-like hold around his neck, choking the Mongol.

            Bane expected Temujin to break the hold, but no matter how the Mongol tried, he remained pinned, his face suffusing with purple, the cords in his neck strained. And even worse, Chase showed no signs of freeing him. The man’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction, teeth bared in his efforts to keep Temujin on the mat. Bane’s glance darted to the two other instructors. Concern there, but neither made a move nor said a word. The other students continued to stare at the combatants. Talia shifted beside him, her fists clenched, her face awash in confusion.

            “Yield, Jin!” she cried at last, plaintive.

            But Bane could see that Temujin had no such plans. And still Chase refused to release him.

            “Let him up!” Bane barked, startling the spectators.

            Talia looked at him, both worried and grateful.

            Chase ignored the order. Temujin choked and gasped, angry eyes bulging.

            Bane stormed onto the mat. Grabbing Chase by his waistband and right leg, he ripped him away from Temujin, flung him to the side, scattered those nearby. Bane did not wait for Chase to recover; he charged after him, fell upon him, landed several quick, punishing blows before Chase threw him off. Around him, the dojo had erupted with shouts, including those from Talia and Temujin, but Bane deciphered no words, heard only noise as the rage welling within him found its outlet. He launched himself low at Chase, catching only one leg as the man dodged. He twisted, but Chase did not topple, too well balanced. Instead he fell upon Bane, grappling for a hold. Bane knew staying down meant ultimately succumbing to Chase’s superior ability to pin an opponent; he could not successfully fight Chase with _taijutsu_. No, he needed to employ a tried and true method—brutal, uncompromising force.

            Summoning more strength than Bane knew he had, he roared to his feet with Chase still latched onto his back. Bane reached behind his head, both hands locking at the back of Chase’s neck. Then he doubled over, throwing the American onto the mat, shaking the floor. Chase, however, still had a grip upon Bane’s shirt, pulling it halfway off in his fall. The American tried to use the fabric to blind Bane. With a backward jerk that half tore, half slipped the garment off, Bane freed himself. Before Chase could drop the shirt, Bane snatched it from him, shoved it over the American’s head like a hood. Thus sightless and flailing, Chase suffered a flurry of blows that drove him to the mat. Bane dropped to his knees so Chase could not grasp his ankles and throw him, his fists striking again and again against the American’s head.

            One of Chase’s arms eluded Bane’s two-handed blows. He managed to clutch the back of Bane’s neck, started to drag him downward, closer to his shrouded head so the punches lacked full range and force. Again keen to avoid ending up on the mat, Bane reared back, fought free of Chase’s hold, and thus unwittingly allowed his opponent to slip from beneath him.

            Both men rose to their feet at the same time, eyes ablaze, faces red. Bane’s right fist flashed out, but Chase blocked the blow with his left forearm, struck with his own right, a shattering blow to the temple that staggered Bane. A second blow, this from below, striking Bane’s mask, driving it painfully upward, a small hiss escaping from the compromised seals. His eyes watered. With sudden fear, he tried to retreat beyond range, but Chase remained close. The American’s next swing hit the mask full on. Paralyzing pain flooded Bane, stole his vision. His groan turned to a rising growl as he swung wildly to fend off another blow to the mask. Warm, salty blood filled his mouth. From somewhere beyond the blur of agony, he heard Talia’s voice, frightened, shrill.

            He no longer saw Damien Chase. Instead he found himself back in the pit, attackers all around him, pressing, suffocating. They dragged him downward, down into blackness, endless, painful blackness, crushed him into silence.


	18. Chapter 18

            From far away, Bane heard Talia singing to him, soft and tenuous. He sensed her anxiety, tried to awaken, tried to find her, but the drugs would not allow it. Just barely, he felt her touch upon his arm, feather-light, moving back and forth. Beneath his arm, a familiar fabric—Melisande’s blanket. Then the rumble of a male voice. Bane tried to deduce to whom it belonged, tried to answer, to speak, but there was a pinprick, and the waves rolled in, passing over him, bore him away.

#

            A melody drifted to him, a strange, pleasing sound, high pitched, thin yet mellow. A song with no voice, no words. A language of its own, one Bane had never heard before. Its strangeness intrigued him, stirred something deep within, a powerful emotion. At first he thought the music a product of opiates, but then dismissed it as simply a dream, realizing that the medicinal fog no longer surrounded him. Yes, a dream, a pleasant, soothing dream.

            “Bane?” Talia’s voice, close beside him. She took his hand. “Can you hear me?”

            The music was still there, but it continued beyond her words, from somewhere beyond his room. Perhaps not a dream after all? But what could make such a sweet sound?

            Bane closed his fingers around Talia’s, and she gave a small gasp.

            “Bane?”

            His eyelids fluttered open to see her beside his bed, seated in a chair which she immediately abandoned to sit close to him on the mattress, smiling with relief. Morning light struggled through the window across the room. To his surprise, bandages covered most of his face.

            Though painful to speak, he croaked out, “What’s that sound?”

            “You mean Passat’s violin?”

            Bane listened a moment longer, marveling at the pleasant melody. He had had little exposure to music besides that of singing—his, Melisande’s, or Talia’s—and nothing as beautiful as this single violin. Why had he not heard this before? The instrument’s voice mesmerized him, momentarily made him forget his pain.

            Talia quietly asked, “Maybe he will come play for you?”

            “No,” Bane hastened. “I can hear it from here.” His fingers drifted up to gingerly touch the bandages upon his face. “Where’s my mask?”

            “It got broken. Lao is fixing it, though. He said he will be done this morning.”

            “Broken?”

            “Yes, in the fight. Don’t you remember?”

            “No.”

            “You were bleeding, so Choden had to bandage you again. He said the bandages have to stay on until the bleeding stops and you can wear the mask again.”

            A knock sounded at the door to his room. When Bane invited the visitor in, he expected to see Choden, but instead Akar appeared upon the threshold, a garment folded and tucked beneath his single arm. Seeing Talia, the boy hesitated.

            “Come in,” Bane gestured, his head dully aching.

            Akar shuffled forward. “Jamyang has mended your shirt.”

            “Mended it?”

            “Yes.” Akar’s shy eye flicked at Talia before staring at the floor.

            “It got torn when you were fighting,” Talia explained. “Don’t you remember?”

            Bane frowned as images returned from yesterday. “Yes, I guess so.”

            “Talia,” Akar said. “Sangye says you are late.”

            “I’m going to stay with Bane this morning.”

            Bane scolded her with his gaze. “No, you aren’t. You must study. As should I.”

            “Choden said you are not to train until you can wear the mask again.”

            “I will talk to him about it.” The bandages made it difficult to speak, as did the fresh pain from his prison wounds being reopened. “Now go on before you get in trouble.”

            She frowned and slowly slipped from the bed, still holding his hand. “I’ll come back as soon as I can.”

            “I know.” He wished he could smile at her. Instead he gave her hand a gentle squeeze before letting go.

            With a glance at Akar stationed near the foot of Bane’s bed, Talia reluctantly left the room, closing the door behind her.

            “Would you like me to put your shirt away or will you be wearing it this morning?” the boy asked.

            “Just put it there on the bed. I’m getting up.”

            Setting the shirt down, Akar hurriedly objected, “But Choden said—”

            “I’m not lying in bed all day. Choden be damned.” He sat up and reached for the shirt. “Tell Jamyang thank you for this.”

            Akar watched him carefully pull the garment over his head. There was something in the boy’s eye that drew Bane’s curiosity, and he wondered why he lingered.

            “Is there something else, Akar?”

            The boy cleared his throat, shifted his weight. “I was there, you know.”

            “Where?”

            “In the dojo yesterday…when you fought Chase. I saw everything.”

            Bane avoided his scrutiny. “Then you saw more than I.”

            “I’ve never seen anything like it. Did you learn to fight that way in prison?”

            Bane wished Akar would leave, for he did not want to discuss his defeat.

            “Chase was so surprised; I could tell,” Akar continued, his eye bright with excitement. “And so was Ducard.”

            “Ducard?”

            “Yes, he was there, too. He came in close to the end when you…well, when you threw all those punches.” Wonder rang in Akar’s voice now, intriguing Bane. “If it had been anyone but Chase, I think you would have killed him.”

            “Well, I couldn’t have come too close to that if I’m the one lying in bed with my face bloody and bandaged.”

            Tentative, Akar slipped around the bed, drew closer. He was smiling almost secretively, proudly. Slowly Bane began to realize what Akar was telling him.

            “You don’t remember, do you?” Akar ventured. “Choden said you might not.”

            “Remember what?”

            “The fight.”

            “I remember most of it.”

            “But not the end?” This came as more of a statement than a question.

            “No, not really.”

            “You blacked out? That’s what Temujin said…that it happens sometimes to you.”

            Bane grumbled, “Jin has no business telling anyone that—”

            “He only told Ducard. I overheard them talking afterward. Temujin was defending what you did.”

            Bane met the boy’s admiring eye. “What did I do?”

            “You beat Chase. Well, you would have if Ducard hadn’t stopped the fight. But you broke his nose and knocked him down; you nearly knocked him out. No one could believe it.” Akar shook his head, smiling. “Now I know why Temujin calls you ‘young bull.’ I don’t think anyone could have stopped you if your mask hadn’t been damaged.”

            Stunned, Bane stared at him, wishing he could remember, but all that came to him were flashes of sound, brief glimpses of color, the taste of blood, the rush of voices, voices from the pit that day Talia had climbed. Yet perhaps those voices had, in fact, been from those in the dojo.

            Tentative, Bane asked, “What did Ducard say?”

            “He wanted to know why you two were fighting. Why a _student_ would be fighting someone like Chase. He was very displeased, especially that it had ‘gotten out of hand.’”

            “He didn’t blame Jin, did he?”

            “He didn’t have to; Temujin took full responsibility.”

            Growling, Bane pushed back Melisande’s blanket, his body stiff and bruised, his movements retarded by soreness in his back. “I need to talk to Ducard.”

            “No,” Akar quickly said. “You would be insulting Temujin if you do.”

            “How?”

            “Because he is your teacher. A teacher always takes responsibility for his student. You will shame him.”

            “To hell with that. Jin had nothing to do with my actions.”

            “You shamed him once. It would be unwise to do it a second time.”

            “Shamed him? How?”

            “You came to his aid when he was fighting Chase.”

            “Chase wouldn’t let him up. He was choking him.”

            “But it was not your place to interfere.” As if suddenly afraid that he had insulted Bane, Akar lowered his gaze before murmuring, “I’m glad you did, though. I’m glad you broke Chase’s nose.”

            Bane hesitated. “Why? Everyone else around here seems to look up to him.”

            “Don’t mistake respect for affection.” Akar looked at him again, and a grin slipped to his scarred face. “After yesterday, others now respect _you_.” The grin drifted away into sobriety. “When they look at me, they see weakness. Before yesterday, they saw the same thing when they looked at you. They did not know. But now they do. Everyone does. Everyone has been talking about it, though not around Ducard,” the grin returned, “or Chase.”

            Bane could not deny the warmth of satisfaction spreading throughout him, easing some of his pain. He reached for his shoes, saying, “I should talk to Jin.”

            “He is not here.”

            Bane straightened in alarm. “What?”

            Akar took a step backward, swallowed, obviously sheepish for having revealed this bit of news. “He left just before sunrise.”

            “Why?” Bane stood, and Akar took another retreating step.

            “Word came last night about his wife’s killer."

            “He left alone?”

            “Yes.”

            Overtaken by a wave of sadness, Bane sank to the edge of his mattress, stared down at his bruised and abraded knuckles. His right wrist ached.

            “Did he say if he’s coming back?”

            “Not to me. I would think only Ducard knows, but perhaps even he doesn’t.” Akar frowned. “I will miss him. He was always kind to me. I missed him very much when he left us the first time.”

            Bane nodded.

            Akar tried to infuse optimism into his voice when he added, “I think he will return. He will want to see you through your training.”

            “Why would he when I shamed him?”

            “Because he cares about you…and Talia. Jamyang says that after Temujin avenges his wife’s murder, he will need a purpose, and Jamyang thinks that purpose is you, especially now that you have shown everyone that Damien Chase is indeed mortal.”

            “ _If_ Jin survives to make it back.” Bane frowned. “Ducard should have sent someone with him.”

            “Temujin would not allow it.”

            “I should go. I could catch up with him—”

            “You can’t; not in your condition. Not without the mask.”

            “Talia said Lao should have it repaired today.”

            Akar shook his head. “You can’t leave now, not when you have just started your training.”

            “My teacher is gone.”

            “You will have another.”

            “I don’t want another.”

            They both sighed in frustration.

            Softer, Akar said, “You cannot just leave, Bane. If you do, you might not be allowed to return.”

            Bane scowled, remembering what Temujin had said about his life now being controlled by the League. Yet, after what he had done last night, after they had witnessed his uncontrolled violence, perhaps no one would care if he left.

            He got to his feet again. “I have to talk to Ducard.”

            “Please, Bane—”

            “Leave me alone, Akar.”

            “Please… If you want to talk to Ducard, don’t confront him; let me tell him that you wish to see him…here, in this room. It wouldn’t be good if others see you confronting him, especially so soon after the fight and after Temujin left. You must be careful now more than ever. It is better if others see him coming to you, so they think it is his doing, not yours.”

            The idea of such orchestration irritated Bane; his fingers twitched, and the pain of his injuries swelled.

            “I’ll go find him,” Akar assured.

            Bane hesitated before grumbling, “Very well. But after you do, find Lao and tell him to hurry up with my mask.”


	19. Chapter 19

            Bane waited impatiently for Ducard, pacing the small room. Had Akar decided not to relay his message? No, if the boy was anything he was reliable. In the meantime, Bane wished Passat still played his violin, for he missed the music’s calming quality.

            When a knock came at his door, he was disappointed to see Akar again instead of Ducard. The boy carried a small tray with his breakfast.

            “Did you tell him?”

            “Yes.”

            “Then where is he?”

            “He is with...” Akar frowned, avoided his gaze. “He is with Rā’s al Ghūl.”

            “Did he say he would come?”

            “He did not.” Akar set the tray down on the bedside table. “Perhaps by the time you are done eating, he will be here. I will help you take off the bandages. Choden will be here soon to examine you and apply a fresh dressing.”

            Bane was tired of needing Choden’s attention. He had hoped all of that was behind him now. He cursed his impetuous actions of the previous day. If not for that, he would be with Temujin right now. Ducard should not have let the Mongol leave alone. Bane feared that his attack on Chase would weigh heavily in Temujin’s decision on whether or not to return. If only he could have at least spoken with his friend before he had left.

            “You must eat,” Akar encouraged. “Jamyang said if you do not, then I am to tell him.”

            Bane scowled at the pureed breakfast, felt his stomach protest and his mouth ache at the prospect of swallowing anything.

            Akar waited patiently near the bed, repeated, “I will help you with the bandages.” When Bane remained across the room from him, Akar added, “You want to be finished before Ducard gets here, don’t you?”

            The boy’s persistent efforts to mollify him finally broke through Bane’s stubbornness. After all, he told himself, none of this was Akar’s fault; it was unfair to take his frustrations out on the boy.

            Once the bandages had been removed, Akar dutifully retreated from the room.

            By the time Bane had finished eating what he could, Choden arrived, carrying with him a small box. The Tibetan wore a curiously eager expression.

            “I have good news,” Choden smiled, holding up the box. “These arrived last night.”

            “What is it?” Without the bandages or mask, Bane’s voice seemed unusually loud.

            From the box, Choden pulled a thin package—small and square—that hinted at a disk-shaped content. “It is a fentanyl patch. Fentanyl is one hundred times more potent than morphine and can be used in conjunction with morphine. Of course, there are potential side effects, so we will need to monitor you carefully. There should be less nausea with this drug, so that will be an improvement.”

            “How long does it work?”

            “About seventy-two hours. The first patches will only have a low dose so we can see how you tolerate it. I am most concerned with it affecting your breathing. But if it is going to do so, I expect it to present within the first seventy-two hours. So no physical exertion until that is determined. Understand?”

            Choden’s pointed stare left no room for argument, so Bane reluctantly agreed.

            “Remove your shirt. We will apply this to your upper arm.”

            “How long will it take to work?” Bane eagerly asked as he dragged the loose-fitting, long-sleeved garment over his head.

            “Eight to twelve hours.” Choden produced a slightly amused grin. “In everything patience, my friend.”

            Once the patch had been affixed, Bane submitted to Choden’s examination, followed by treatment and bandaging. Choden was unusually quiet, and the fact that he did not broach the subject of his fight with Chase spoke volumes. Just as his attendant finished, Ducard arrived. Choden hastily retreated, avoiding either man’s eyes.

            Heavy silence lay between the two men, Bane standing near his bed, Ducard just inside the door, which Choden had discreetly closed behind him. Bane swallowed the last taste of blood. His fingers twitched. He wondered if Ducard awaited an apology, but Bane realized that he had no regrets about the fight except for what it may have cost Temujin.

            “Jin is gone?”

            Ducard nodded, his face still unreadable. “He is.”

            “Is he…did he say if he is coming back?”

            “He knows that he is welcome.”

            Bane frowned at the evasion but nodded. “It wasn’t my intention to bring any dishonor to him. He is an excellent teacher…and a good friend.”

            “Then what _was_ your intention, Bane?”

            The coldness of the question surprised Bane, stirred a touch of anger deep inside, but he squelched it, as Temujin would want.

            “My intention,” Bane measured his words carefully, “was to help my friend.”

            “But did your friend need help?”

            Bane reached for his brace and slipped it around his waist. “I thought he did.”

            “In truth, you did not _think_ at all; you reacted. A foolish, dangerous response to what you perceived as danger but what was, in fact, no danger at all. Did you really think Damien meant to injure Temujin?”

            Bane hesitated. “Yes.” When Ducard gave him a disappointed look, Bane could not keep from adding, “You weren’t there when it happened; you didn’t see what I saw.”

            Ducard stepped closer, skeptical eyes stormy, brow low. “And what did you see?”

            “He wasn’t just trying to defeat Jin; he was trying to humiliate him.”

            “Even if that were true, it was not your place to intervene. Temujin’s humiliation came not from Chase, but from you, his student.”

            Bane stared at him, the words stinging. “I couldn’t just stand there.”

            “But that is exactly what you should have done. You must remember your place. You must exercise humility, a virtue that you must master as you must master all of your impetuous impulses.”

            Bane’s anger caused his fingers to fumble while buckling the brace. In a quiet growl behind the cursed bandages, he repeated, “You weren’t there.” He lowered his attention to the frustrating buckles.

            Ducard said nothing until Bane had secured the brace and forced his gaze back to him. Some of Ducard’s anger had drifted away. He studied Bane for a long moment, making him uncomfortable.

            “You would prefer me as your teacher?”

            The intuitive question shook Bane, making him stammer upon his response, “Temujin is a good teacher. I can wait for him to return.”

            “I wasn’t referring to now; I was referring to the beginning of your training. Are you angry that it is not I who instructs you?”

            “No, of course not.” Bane crossed his arms, suddenly not knowing what to do with himself.

            “Your physical training will take months, Bane, as will your academic studies. You will progress farther and faster if you have consistency in who teaches you. I am gone from here more days than I am here. I thought you understood that.”

            “I do.”

            “I regret that Temujin left, but I have high hopes that he shall return. And I have those hopes because of you. You have somehow cultivated a deep loyalty in Temujin, something that such a man does not give freely. It is a gift few possess, to inspire others. It is an intangible bond that can hold men to you in even the most desperate situations.”

            Bane’s agitation drifted away with Ducard’s surprising words, and he felt almost foolish for being angry with the man.

            “Chase is not your enemy, Bane.”

            Startled, Bane straightened his aching back, quickly searched for a retort, but Ducard continued before he could find any words.

            “He is your brother now, like it or not. And if you exercise the humility of which I spoke, you can learn much from him.” Ducard paused. “Your first lesson is accepting that Chase and others besides you and I will care for my daughter. Your path lies in a different direction from hers.”

            Though Bane knew Ducard was undoubtedly correct, the words injured him all the same. Somehow he felt Ducard was intimating that he was unworthy of Talia now, that he was a mere foot soldier, not the man who had protected her for her entire life. But he could not dismiss what he felt was still his duty to her…and to her mother.

            Unwittingly, Bane’s glance drifted to Melisande’s blanket on the bed, and he felt Ducard’s attention follow.

            “I promised her,” Bane murmured, more to himself than Ducard. “I promised Melisande that I would protect Talia. I’ve done it for so long that it’s a part of me; it’s instinctive. She was frightened when Chase pinned Temujin and wouldn’t let him up. I knew she wanted me to help him… _I_ wanted to help him. I’m not blaming her; it was my choice.”

            Ducard stepped closer and picked up Melisande’s blanket. Bane shifted, uneasy and unsure. Ducard handled the fabric with great care, his gaze caressing it, his voice soft, “When I learned of her father’s part in her imprisonment, do you know what my first impulse was?”

            Bane shook his head, barely breathed.

            “I wanted nothing more than to destroy him, to do to him what you did to your grandfather.”

            Bane was finally able to ask the question that had troubled him since his rescue, “Why didn’t you?”

            A distance had crept into Ducard’s voice, and his attention remained upon the blanket. “Because I knew I had to look beyond my own grief. I could not allow it to control me as it had ten years ago when I was separated from Melisande. And when I looked beyond it, I saw an opportunity, a way to benefit the League as well as a way to exact a measure of revenge. It was a decision I could not have made if I had allowed my passions to dominate me.”

            “What did you do?”

            “I struck a bargain with Melisande’s mother. Without her help, my daughter might not have survived after her escape, so naturally I felt indebted to her.”

            Though some seven years had passed since he had met Melisande’s mother, Bane remembered Maysam well. After his back surgery, she had come to the medical clinic to visit him, made aware of his plight by a letter from her daughter that had been smuggled out of the prison. As a reward for his care of Melisande, the beautiful woman had offered him freedom, but Bane had instead elected to return to the pit, unable to abandon Talia and her mother, unconvinced that anyone but he could ensure their safety. And though Maysam had promised to make every attempt possible to see them all free, no such relief had come to them. Bane, however, did not doubt that Maysam had never given up trying. And once he had been rescued, Talia had told him of her grandmother’s promise to always remember him, and that she would help him should he ever require her assistance.

            “Maysam knew there was murder in my heart for her husband,” Ducard said, “and though she could not forgive him for their daughter’s death, neither would she see him killed. But what she _could_ do—and has done—is funnel some of her husband’s wealth to the League. By doing this, she supports her granddaughter while ensuring that I will not seek vengeance upon her husband. For me, what greater justice could there be than to take from Melisande’s father what he prizes the most, while at the same time benefitting the League?” A ghost of a smile touched Ducard’s face.

            Bane nodded, unsure whether to admire Ducard for his resourcefulness or be disappointed in his willingness to let Melisande’s father live. His gaze lingered on the blanket, though he tried not to make his concern about Ducard permanently reclaiming it so obvious.

            Methodically, Ducard began to fold the blanket. “And that is what you must do when your passions try to control you, Bane. You must have the ability to step back and assess the options that are available, not just options that benefit you, but ones that will benefit the League. Thoughts of yourself must always come last, no matter how unpleasant that may seem. You have spent your entire life merely surviving. It is time that you embrace this greater purpose.” He finished folding the blanket into a square, smoothed it against his broad chest, waited until Bane’s eyes lifted from the blanket. “You must assure me now, Bane,” he continued in a deep, grave tone, “that you will never again allow yourself to succumb to the impulses that yesterday threatened one of our brethren.”

            Bane shifted his weight, tried to focus upon Ducard’s steely gaze, but again his attention slipped to the blanket. His fingers twitched.

            Sensing Ducard’s waning patience, at last he nodded. “You have my word.”

            A small smile eased Ducard’s expression, and at last he set the blanket back down upon Bane’s bed.


	20. Chapter 20

            Bane spent the rest of the day studying with his tutor, Deshmukh. Focusing upon mathematical principles and geography helped take his mind off his conversation with Ducard and distracted him from the physical discomfort caused by yesterday’s fight. By late afternoon, he had begun to feel the effects of the fentanyl as it smoothed away the dull ache in his face. But it also made him a bit drowsy, so before he could nod off in his books, Deshmukh dismissed him to his room to nap. About that time, though, Lao arrived with his mask.

            Choden accompanied Lao into Bane’s room. After removing Bane’s bandages, he remained to supervise Lao’s mask fitting.

            “You cannot wear it,” Choden reminded. “We will see if it functions properly and examine the seals to ensure they are seated correctly, but then off it comes.”

            “I know, Choden, I know,” Bane grumbled as his attendant unwound the gauze.

            After several uncomfortable minutes during which both Lao and Choden secured the mask and then fussed about him, asking questions and making adjustments, Bane found the mask to be performing as it had prior to the fight. The opiate vapor, coupled with the fentanyl patch, actually succeeded in completely masking the pain for the first time since he had suffered his injuries. As if liberated from a second prison, Bane’s spirits rose.

            “This is all very well,” Choden said with a note of caution, “but this should also be a lesson to you, Bane. You are only as invincible as your mask allows you to be. Like it or not, you are at a disadvantage when in a fight. It is best if you remember this next time.” Then Choden quickly glanced at Lao and cleared his throat. “Not that there will be a next time. I mean, not a next time like this last time.” The Tibetan scowled to himself and stood from his chair. “All right then. Thank you, Lao. Remarkable work as always.”

            The man bowed, unsmiling as usual.

            Bane thanked Lao, and as the Chinaman left the room, Choden turned back to Bane where he sat on the edge of his bed. When Choden reached to remove the mask, Bane reared back.

            “Can’t I wear it just for a short while?”

            “No. I want you to remain bandaged until at least tomorrow. Don’t you listen to me, boy?” Choden shook his head and again reached for the mask’s fasteners. This time Bane surrendered.

            As Choden once again irrigated and debrided his damaged nose and mouth, Bane was thankful for the fentanyl. The procedure also gave Choden the chance to lecture him without being interrupted, which he did at length, not just about yesterday’s fight and the damage it had caused him, but about anything else that came to mind.

            “Now this evening,” Choden said as he began to apply a swath of bandaging, “after supper, you will come to the common room with the rest of the men. You will not hole up here in your room like some lone wolf, feeling sorry for yourself.”

            “I’m tired already, Choden. The fentanyl is kicking my—”

            “I will be the one kicking your ass if you don’t go. And don’t think I can’t. You don’t have to stay all night down there, but you do have to make an appearance. I have no doubt that Chase will be there, bruises and all. You must show that you are willing to accept whatever punishment they believe Ducard has meted out and that you sincerely want to become one of them. Hold no grudge. That is only negative energy that will do you no service.”

            As difficult as it was, Bane forced himself to listen and not offer another opposing word while Choden finished with the bandages.

            “And once you have healed up a bit,” Choden continued, “you should begin eating with the others downstairs.”

            “No.”

            “Yes.” Choden stood, removing his latex gloves with a defiant snap. “It is time for you to quit hiding. I am not telling you to stand atop the fountain in Piccadilly Square in London and take off your mask. I am telling you to share your meals with men who are your brothers now.”

            “You’re assuming the sight of me won’t make my _brothers_ lose their appetites.”

            “You know enough about these men to know they have the stomach for much worse. Am I not right?” He stepped into the small bathroom to wash his hands. When Bane had not answered by the time he left the sink, he gave him a pointed look. “Hmm?”

            “Yes, yes, no doubt you are right.”

            Choden grunted. “Of course I am.” He gathered up the medical supplies and returned them to the small cabinet in the bathroom. His air of authority drifted away. “I am sorry that you have lost Temujin as your instructor.”

            Bane frowned. “Me, too. But I understand why he had to go. I only wish I could have gone with him to help.”

            Choden grunted again. “Patience, my friend. There will be many opportunities for you to use your skills once you have proven yourself worthy.” He raised an expressive eyebrow at him before turning for the door. “And you can begin proving that by coming downstairs this evening.”

#

            An early winter storm battered the exterior of the monastery. Bane could hear the icy mix tapping on his window before he left his room that evening. The wind had little difficulty slipping inside the wooden structure and chilling the atmosphere even more than usual, so Bane made sure he wore an extra layer of clothing, including a scarf that he wrapped twice around his neck and tucked beneath his rustic brown tunic. As a final measure of warmth, he draped Melisande’s blanket around his shoulders. This decision gave him a moment’s pause, for he worried that such open displays in front of Henri Ducard might yet encourage the man to reclaim his wife’s blanket. But, considering his own unease at the prospect of going downstairs so soon after the fight, he dismissed his concerns about Ducard’s reclamation because he wanted the consolation that the blanket always afforded.

            A fire was already roaring in the common room’s large hearth, and the majority of the monastery’s population had gathered by the time Bane made his appearance. A few glanced his way, but no one broke away from current conversations to engage him. When Talia arrived a moment later with her father, she rushed across the room with a smile on her face.

            “How are you feeling?” she asked, the light from the fire dancing in her large eyes as she took his hand.

            “Better.”

            “I’m so glad you came down. Passat is going to play for us tonight.”

            This news pleased Bane and eased some of his discomfort in the situation.

            Ducard trailed up in his daughter’s wake, and his smile—while not as effusive as Talia’s—was warm and inviting. Bane was relieved that he seemed to take no notice of the blanket.

            “Choden told me about the fentanyl patch,” Ducard said. “It has given you relief?”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Good, good. I would hate for you to miss Passat’s performance. He has been without proper strings for some time now, so we have sorely missed his music these many weeks.”

            Akar stepped over to them, artfully balancing a wooden tray with three earthen mugs. He, too, looked pleased to see Bane. When Talia started to reach for one of the mugs, Akar mildly scolded, “The blue one is for you. You don’t want Bane or your father to drink your hot chocolate, do you?”

            “Chocolate?” Talia echoed. “You can’t _drink_ chocolate.”

            “Yes, you can,” Akar insisted, his cheeks slightly flushed. “And Jamyang added fresh butter cream to it as well.”

            “Try it, my dear,” Ducard encouraged. “It was acquired especially for you, made from the finest cocoa beans in the world.”

            Amazed by all of this, Talia took the mug into both hands and smiled. “It’ll keep my hands warms.”

            “And your insides,” Akar said with a small smile. “You must try it. I helped make it.” Then when Talia started to lift the mug to her lips, he quickly cautioned, “Be careful; it’s very hot.”

            “Blow on it to cool it,” Ducard said. “Then just sip it so you don’t burn your mouth.”

            The three watched closely as Talia sampled a tentative sip. Her expression immediately opened in wonder. “It _is_ chocolate!”

            “Of course it is,” Bane chided. “Akar wouldn’t lie to you.” He gave the boy a private wink, which deepened Akar’s color and made him shuffle his feet.

            “And what has Jamyang made for the rest of us?” Ducard asked, taking one of the mugs.

            “Mulled wine,” Akar said. “Made with your favorite port, sir.”

            Ducard sampled the drink and came away smiling. “My compliments to Jamyang. Tell him that he must come out of that kitchen to share a glass with us. And you must pour some of that chocolate for yourself.”

            “I will, sir. Thank you, sir.” Then Akar’s timorous gaze went to Bane, and he spoke in a private voice. “Will you be able to drink yours, Bane? I’m afraid it’s only coffee; Choden told us you aren’t to have alcohol because of the…” He frowned, his voice trailing off.

            Bane took the last mug from the tray, along with the straw discreetly placed alongside it. “I will let it cool a bit first. Then, if Choden doesn’t try to spoil things any further, I look forward to drinking it. Thank you, Akar.”

            Akar allowed himself the joy of watching Talia take two more sips of her chocolate, followed by her delighted sounds of approval before he reluctantly returned to his duties.

            Chairs from the table were scattered about the room, though most had been situated closest to the fire. Passat sat tuning his violin, the delicate instrument a safe distance from the heat source. Most of the men had been standing in small groups, drinking their spiced wine, their loose body language revealing their ease as they talked, but as it became apparent that Passat would soon be ready to begin, the men leisurely chose their seats, some even sitting on the floor. Thinking of his back, Bane settled into a chair closest to Passat; he wanted to witness up close how the man was able to bring forth such beautiful sound from those four thin, wire-like strings.

            Damien Chase and Rā’s al Ghūl arrived in the common room just then. Chase’s sharp eyes immediately swept around the room, coming eventually to Bane. Bane tensed as their gazes locked, and a rush of emotions from yesterday’s fight washed over him. Chase wore a bandage across the bridge of his nose, and the flesh around both his eyes was a deep shade of black and blue. Bane kept satisfaction away from his expression lest Ducard look his way. For his part, Chase gave him a small, cocked smile and a tiny, enigmatic nod before taking up a seat close to the fire. Rā’s al Ghūl, meanwhile, crossed over to a chair beside Ducard. Talia settled between her father and Bane, looking particularly pleased with the gathering. Choden claimed the chair on Bane’s other side.

            Though Bane avoided looking at Chase again, concentrating instead upon Passat’s tuning, his thoughts remained on the American. While he admitted a touch of smug gratification over the damage to Chase’s handsome face, he tempered such conceit by reminding himself that Chase was not the only one wearing bandages. During the day, when not consumed by his studies, Bane’s thoughts had returned to yesterday’s fight. Bits and flashes had trickled back from the blackness that had hid his final actions. A blind rage that had empowered his blows. Even now it caused his fingers to twitch and momentarily ball into fists until he closed his eyes and breathed deeply, settling himself, listened to Talia chatter away with her father. Her voice, her happiness eased him.

            Bane’s attention slid to Talia’s father, who was laughing at something his daughter had said. A couple of times today, while reflecting upon the fight and Ducard’s words that morning, Bane wondered if Chase had orchestrated everything that had occurred yesterday. Perhaps he had baited Temujin into a fight for the sole purpose of goading Temujin’s student into defending the Mongol. But this theory Bane dismissed, for how could Chase possibly know ahead of time the reaction he would achieve by besting Temujin in front of him?

            As Passat began to play, the sweet voice of the violin pulled Bane’s focus away from his conjectures, and silenced everyone in the room. The first piece started out quiet and slow, but the second movement picked up tempo and volume, Passat’s fingers dancing along the strings, his bow nearly a blur. The purity of the instrument’s sound, the way Passat seemed fully engrossed in his performance mesmerized Bane. He had never heard anything so beautiful in his life. It were almost as if the violin were a living creature, full of emotions that only Passat could interpret and share. Those emotions not only passed through Passat’s skilled hands but manifested upon the man’s face as well—sometimes his eyes closed as if consumed by intense passion or perhaps a vision; other times various lines creased his forehead; or his mouth opened just slightly as if about to emit a word or sound. To think that this man was also a trained killer confounded Bane, for it seemed so incongruous.

            For nearly an hour, Passat entertained them with classical compositions from Mozart, Sibelius, Boccherini, and other composers whose names he supplied in between pieces. Often Talia could not contain her delight and would clap her hands or tap her toes in rhythm. At the end of each piece, she was always the first to burst into applause.

            “Papa, you promised to dance with me,” she said at one point, getting to her feet, her hot chocolate long gone. She stood between Ducard’s knees, facing him and taking hold of his hands.

            Amused, Ducard smiled at her. “I was hoping you had forgotten.”

            “Of course not,” she said, leaning back to encourage him to his feet.

            “Perhaps a Strauss waltz, Passat?” Ducard raised a querying eyebrow at the musician.

            “Of course,” Passat answered with a smile of his own for Talia.

            “It has been many years since I have danced,” Ducard told his daughter. “So you must forgive my clumsiness.”

            Those seated closest to Passat pushed their chairs back to offer more room for the dancers. All who watched grinned at the happy child as she towed her father into their midst. When Passat began to play, Ducard swept Talia up, one arm wrapped around her to hold her close, the other clasping her hand, extended outward. With more grace than should have been possible for such a large man, he began to waltz the child around the loose circle of spectators.

            Many of the men got to their feet, as did Bane. Now and then one or more of them would throw out comments to the dancers—some encouraging or flattering Talia, others offering good-natured barbs at Ducard for his lack of style. Even the stoic Rā’s al Ghūl had a conservative smile for the occasion.

            Bane was mildly surprised by Ducard’s willingness to appear a bit absurd in front of his men. And he was impressed. How confident Ducard must be to show this side of himself to those who were subordinate to him. Thinking back on his years in the pit, Bane realized that he had not been far different from Ducard in this respect when it came to Talia. How silly he must have looked to the rough prison population when he used to run up and down the stairs of the _bawdi_ with Talia upon his back or shoulders, the girl squealing with delight. He had ignored most of the derisive comments from fellow inmates, but on occasion he had silenced his detractors with his fists. It had been those displays of violence that curbed the tongues of others who later considered making fun of his devotion to Talia’s happiness.

            Before the waltz could end, Hafif stepped forward and asked for Talia’s hand. The Syrian had no idea how to waltz, but Talia did not seem to mind, and she laughed along with him as he awkwardly tried to imitate Ducard’s steps. Then, one after another, men took their turns whirling Talia around the makeshift dance floor. By then, most everyone was on his feet, the warmth of goodwill spilling throughout the dim room, the golden flicker of the fire painting all of them.

            Again Bane compared this scene to his time in prison. Except for Doctor Assad, Bane had not allowed anyone else to hold Talia. One time—when she was a mere infant—she had been snatched from his arms in the stepwell by a prisoner who had planned to use her to extort money from Melisande’s family. With the help of Hans and another ally—a big Nigerian named Yemi—Bane had quickly retaken her, but after that, it had been several years before Melisande allowed her daughter to leave her cell. Now, watching Talia change hands time and time again, Bane marveled at—and appreciated—the difference between the men of the pit and the men of the League.

            The last to claim his dance was Damien Chase. When he cut in on Choden, Bane detected a barely discernable hesitation in both Chase and Talia, as if the man was afraid of being rebuffed and Talia was unsure of the invitation. But then that brief moment slipped past, and she allowed the American to hold her in his arms. Bane took care not to allow his jealousy to show.

            Akar’s laughter reached Bane’s ears, and he found the boy next to him, watching Talia with a mixture of wistfulness and joy.

            Smiling behind the bandages, Bane leaned next to Akar’s ear so he could be heard over the music. He urged, “Go dance with her.”


	21. Chapter 21

            “I—I don’t know how to dance,” Akar stammered. His one good eye had widened in shock at Bane’s suggestion. The shadow thrown by Damien Chase’s dancing form blurred the boy’s eye patch so that for a moment it was not perceptible to Bane.

            “Neither does Talia,” Bane said with a nudge of his elbow.

            “But…” Akar nodded toward his missing arm.

            “Hurry before the song is over.”

            Chewing his lower lip, Akar flicked his attention back to Talia in Chase’s arms.

            “Go on.”

            “I—I can’t.”

            Bane nearly called out to Talia to come and claim her new partner, but he feared embarrassing Akar by drawing everyone’s attention to him, so instead he simply urged again, “Go on. Don’t you want to?”

            “Y—yes, but—”

            “Then go on before it’s too late.”

            Akar wavered. Just when he screwed on his courage and started to step out of the shadows, Passat finished the waltz with a flourish of his bow. Everyone broke into applause. Akar’s shoulders slumped in disappointment, and before Bane could say anything more, the boy slipped away toward the kitchen, no doubt to retrieve more drink for the gathering.

            Talia escaped Chase’s hold and hurried over to Bane, her whole being alive with joy. As he reclaimed his seat, she climbed onto his lap, her body wonderfully warm from her exertions.

            “Why didn’t you dance with me, _habibi_?”

            “I’m afraid I don’t have as much energy as you this night.” He wrapped his arms around her and held her close, pleased to have her to himself again.

            “Did you see Damien’s eyes? Choden says he looks like a raccoon.”

            “And do you know what a raccoon looks like?”

            “Yes, of course. I’ve seen pictures. They look like they are wearing a mask. They have black fur around their eyes. Do _you_ know what they look like?” she asked with a sly smile.

            He chuckled and gave her a squeeze. When Ducard reclaimed his seat, Bane expected Talia to go to him but was pleased when she remained. Most of the men returned to their places, conversations resuming.

            Before Passat could place his violin in its case, Bane asked if he could hold the instrument. The irascible German eyed him with concern, but when Talia added a heartfelt, “Please,” Passat reluctantly obliged.

            Bane carefully examined the polished wood and gently touched the strings. “Where did you learn to play?” he asked in German—a language acquired from Hans in prison.

            “I learned as a boy. My mother insisted I would learn either the violin or the piano, and since it is much easier to carry around a violin than a piano…”

            The man’s joke surprised Bane, for thus far in their limited relationship, Passat had not been particularly genial. But now he almost smiled after his comment, though perhaps the smile was more for Talia’s benefit. Yet Bane sensed something different in the man as he handed back the violin. Passat actually met his gaze, and this time without the coldness that had chilled their time together during their mission to find Bane’s father. And as the night progressed, Bane noticed the same subtle change among several others, men who interacted with him instead of simply sending perfunctory platitudes his way as they had in the past whenever their paths crossed.

            Drowsiness from the fentanyl began to weigh Bane’s eyelids, yet he found himself reluctant to leave the gathering. Akar and Jamyang kept everyone’s drinks topped off, and when the boy brought Bane a new mug, he revealed a conspiratorial smile before moving on. When Bane slipped the straw between the bandages, he discovered the heady taste of spiced wine.

            “That doesn’t smell like coffee,” Talia said, now nearly asleep.

            “Hush,” Bane said, then winked.

            Sangye stood from a nearby chair, yawning and stretching. “It is past my student’s bedtime, is it not, young lady? And it is past mine as well.”

            As Talia started to protest, Ducard added, “Sangye is right. We will not be able to rouse you in the morning, and then we will have a fight on our hands. So…off you go.”

            “I’m too tired to climb the stairs, Papa. Carry me.”

            Ducard chuckled. “I’m afraid not, my pet.”

            “I’ll carry you,” Bane offered. “I’m ready for bed myself. Then your father can stay down here longer.”

            Ducard bowed his head slightly. “Thank you, Bane.”

            Bane wrapped Melisande’s blanket around Talia’s shoulders, then crouched and offered his back. “Right, then. Climb aboard.” Carrying her would be no small task, considering the soreness still controlling his body from the fight, but he appreciated the opportunity to show the others that he was undaunted.

            With a giggle of triumph, Talia clambered up to ride piggyback. She bid all those around her good night and received warm wishes in return.

            Once upon the stairs, Talia’s weight relaxed fully against him like a ragdoll, revealing her sleepiness. Her soft, warm cheek rested against his shoulder as she murmured on about her dancing. Her mother’s blanket rustled as she drew it close to her face.

            “I wish Mama could have been there to dance with Papa.”

            Bane’s hand closed upon hers. “She was.”

            Talia’s room was a contrast to the Spartan décor of Bane’s room. Hers was larger and had two windows. Besides a desk like Bane’s, there were also three chairs at a small table, which was used for her studies with Sangye as well as for other purposes, such as games or puzzles. There was a half-finished jigsaw puzzle spread there now, one which depicted London, a sight that made Bane think of his own mother...and his half-sister, for that was where Ducard said she now lived. How ironic. There was also a bookshelf and a modestly-sized chest, ornately carved with dragons, from which spilled a handful of toys, some brought to the monastery from unknown places, others—like the horse Bane had carved for her during his convalescence—made by members of the League. Akar had contributed as well, having sewn a doll for her, a monumental task for one who possessed but a single hand. It was the only thing in the room that reflected Talia’s feminine gender. She slept with it every night and had created a number of dresses to interchange with the plain monastic attire that Akar had initially provided.

            As Bane turned back her blankets and located the doll, Talia quickly changed into the nightclothes Jamyang had made for her, lined with the softest wool from the monastery’s own flock. She crawled into bed as Bane revived the low fire in the hearth to combat the storm still raging outside. With the fire crackling hungrily over the fresh fuel, Bane returned to sit on the edge of Talia’s bed. As she settled against the pillow, he brought the blankets up to her chin. Sleep pressed heavily upon her, but he could see she was not quite ready to succumb.

            “I had so much fun tonight,” she quietly said. “Didn’t you?”

            “It was very enjoyable.”

            “Next time you must dance with me.”

            He chuckled. “Jin told me I lack grace, so I doubt I would be much of a dancer.”

            Talia’s smile tempered. “Do you think Jin will come back?”

            “I don’t know, _habibati_. But I sure hope so. Now…you must get some sleep.”

            He started to stand, but Talia’s voice halted him.

            “Bane…” She frowned and fidgeted with the edge of her blanket. A troubled line marred her smooth forehead.

            Bane touched her fingers. “What is it, little mouse?”

            The frown deepened before she looked up at him. “Is Damien a bad man? I mean…like the ones in prison?”

            “What makes you ask that?”

            “Your fight. Is that why you fought him—because he’s a bad man?”

            The concept of Damien Chase being anything less than a friend and an admirer seemed to injure her deeply, so Bane hastened to assure her, “No, that isn’t why I fought him, _habibati_. Of course not. He wouldn’t be here if he were a bad man; your father wouldn’t allow it, would he?”

            “I guess not,” she murmured, not completely convinced. “But then why did you fight him?”

            “I thought he was hurting Jin.”

            She nodded slightly, her frown returning. “So did I. But…why would he? Isn’t he Jin’s friend?”

            “Well…I’m not sure you could call them friends. But neither are they enemies. Sometimes relationships can be a bit…complicated.”

            “Papa was mad at you, wasn’t he?”

            Not wanting her to think that everyone whom she cared about was at odds with one another, he said, “Maybe a little, but we talked, and I promised to take better care of my temper.” He smiled and tapped her nose. “Don’t worry about any of this, _habibati_. It’s all in the past now. We have all learned a lesson.”

            This wiped the anxiety from her face, and she smiled and captured his hand, studied him for a moment before saying, “I miss seeing your smile.”

            The words caught him off guard, pained him, especially when he saw the familiar shadow of guilt creep back into her beautiful eyes. He forced himself to quickly recover, saying, “Well, it is still here, especially when I look at you.” He leaned down and drew her hand against the bandages, as if he could kiss her through them, hoping that his eyes revealed his smile.

            His gesture succeeded in restoring her happiness, and she quietly said, “I love you, _habibi_.”

            “I love you, too, little mouse. Now…” He tucked her doll beneath the blanket with her. “Get some sleep.”

            Reluctantly he left her for his own chilled room. After starting a fire, he changed his clothes, wrapped himself in Melisande’s blanket, and retreated to his bed. He did not fall asleep immediately, though. His thoughts drifted from Talia to the time spent downstairs. It had been a night unlike any other. He had felt almost included in the gathering, a feeling that now comforted him more than the fire. Choden and Ducard had called these men his brothers; indeed, even Chase had called them that. Could he truly think of them that way? Did they think the same of him now that they knew he was no helpless charity case?

            Bane tugged Melisande’s blanket up over the bandages and began to drift off. Perhaps, he thought, when he had said good-bye to his father, he had not lost his family after all. Perhaps he had, instead, gained a new one.


	22. Chapter 22

            As soon as Choden declared him fit, Bane resumed training, eager to redeem himself in Ducard’s eyes.

            Xing Lao assumed the role of his primary instructor, and though Bane respected the Chinaman’s abilities, it took some time for him to feel comfortable with his new teacher. If Lao had a sense of humor, he kept it hidden, buried beneath a thick accent. His exterior was that of a middle-aged man, but Bane knew Lao to be barely forty. Years spent as a political prisoner in his homeland had prematurely aged him.

            Lao was more quick-tempered than Temujin, and—when in the dojo—he always carried an engraved Yantok that he wielded freely upon his student if Bane’s efforts fell short of expectations and demands. And though such blows were never more than stinging, absorbing them in various regions of his body and in front of others tested Bane’s tolerance. But Lao did not need to tell Bane that such was the purpose behind this abuse. After Bane’s fight with Chase, Lao appeared determined to prove that Bane could indeed curb his reflexive desire to lash out whenever struck. He swung the stick more freely when Bane was most vulnerable, either physically or mentally, such as when he could not master a certain technique and thus kept being thrown to the mat by his opponents. At the first hint of Bane’s frustration, the Yantok would strike. The occasional laughter or knowing looks from other students further challenged Bane’s self-control.

            A month into this partnership, Ducard and Chase both left the monastery. Ducard said he expected to be gone four to six weeks, Chase even longer. A part of Bane was relieved to see them go, for now he would feel less pressure. Talia, of course, was heartbroken by her father’s absence, so Bane did his best to distract her and keep her spirits up. And when she crept to his room the first couple of nights after the dormitory had fallen dark and quiet, he did not protest, for he easily sensed her loneliness as well as her fear that her father would never return.

            But when she came to share his bed on the third night, he felt duty-bound to gently remind her of her father’s rules.

            “He won’t know,” she whispered the same words she had used time and time again as she lifted his blankets and crawled in close to him.

            “Talia—”

            “We’ll both be warmer. It’s so cold tonight.”

            Bane flinched. “Yes, just like your feet.”

            She giggled and snuggled tightly against him, pulling the blankets over their heads.

            Bane hushed her. “Someone will hear you. You’re going to get us in trouble.”

            “No one will tell Papa.”

            “You’d better hope not.” But his scolding tone died away as her warmth started to work through his clothes.

            She gave a contented purr, her cheek against his shoulder. Languidly her finger trailed across his mask. “I don’t like to sleep by myself; it’s cold and lonely. And, besides, I don’t understand why Papa doesn’t want me to sleep with you. I’ve told him over and over how we shared the same bed in prison.”

            “But this isn’t prison. And you’re not a baby anymore; you’re eleven years old.”

            “I know. But what difference does that make?”

            Bane sighed through the mask, pulled the blanket away from his face so he could breathe easier. Talia did the same, her hand drifting back to rest against his chest, the firelight playing upon her ever-lengthening dark hair.

            “Don’t be mad, _habibi_ ,” she murmured.

            “I’m not mad.”

            “Then why don’t you want me to stay?”

            “It’s not that I don’t want you to.” He sighed again, trying to think of a way to make her understand. “But you being here isn’t…appropriate.”

            “Why not?”

            Bane could hear the pout in her voice now, and he frowned. There was no comfortable way to address this, especially when he himself found contentment in her defying her father’s rule.

            He shifted onto his side so he could see her better, with less of the mask obstructing his view. “Remember back in prison when you took my anatomy book, and you found the pictures of a man and a woman—their differences? The day you realized you were a girl?”

            “Yes, of course I remember.”

            “And I explained those physical differences.”

            “Yes, you told me how a man and a woman can make a baby. Like how Papa and Mama made me.”

            Bane swallowed his discomfort at the thought of Melisande having sex with anyone other than himself, as he had imagined so many times in his dreams and fantasies. “Yes, that’s right. And that’s why ‘normal’ people think it’s inappropriate for a grown man like me to share my bed with a girl. They think that everything is about sex.”

            Talia remained silent for a long moment, her brows knitting in confusion. “They think we have sex?”

            “Well, no, not necessarily. But they think just because—”

            “I don’t know how to have sex. Do you?”

            For once, Bane was thankful for the mask, for he knew that his face had to be beet red. “It—it’s not that I don’t know how; it’s just that…” He cleared his throat. “That’s not important right now. What’s important is that we are subordinate to your father’s rules, and—no matter the reason—he wants you sleeping in your own bed.”

            But Talia’s curiosity continued, “If we had sex, would we make a baby?”

            “No…no, Talia. You aren’t listening to me—”

            “Have you had sex with anyone, Bane?”

            “Talia, stop.” He pressed a finger against her lips, but his obvious discomfiture amused her, and her lips spread into a smile beneath his urgent touch.

            “Have you?”

            “Talia, enough. Of course I haven’t. You’re being foolish.”

            “Do you want to?”

            “What? No!” He shoved back the blanket. “Enough of this nonsense. Go back to your room.”

            “No,” she drew out the word and struggled against him to pull the blanket back over them. She started to giggle again.

            “We’re not playing a game,” he said testily, jerking the blanket from her grasp.

            His abruptness surprised her into silence, and she gave up her antics, looking chagrined and almost hurt. Bane sighed in exasperation and smoothed Melisande’s blanket.

            “Don’t be mad, _habibi_.”

            “I’m _not_ mad.” He stifled a huff and rolled onto his back. “You’re too young to be talking about these things.”

            Surreptitiously she drew the blanket back over them but did not press closer. She whispered, “I’m sorry.”

            Bane knew he should again insist she return to her room, but now that he had sufficiently cowed her, he did not want to further sadden her. With a frown, he opened his left arm, inviting her back into his warmth. She responded with a demure smile from beneath long lashes.

            “This is the end of it,” he rumbled. “Understand? Tonight then no more.”

            She nodded, her deep blue gaze steady upon him, as if to make sure he truly was not angry, then she snuggled back inside his embrace.

            After a quiet moment, his irritation drifted away. After all, how could he blame her for her desire to remain close when he, too, regretted the changes they must make purely for the sake of others? He murmured, “Your father said you and I have different destinies. But whatever your destiny, I want you to find someone who loves you very much, like I loved your mother. Someone you can marry and have a normal life with, have a family.”

            “But I have a family. You and Papa.”

            “We’re your family, too, yes; but you will have one of your own as well, I hope; if you can find someone worthy of you.”

            “You’re worthy of me. Why don’t _we_ get married?”

            He could not help but chuckle at her innocence, though his response instantly drew another pout from her full lips. “No, little mouse. I am too old for you. You need someone close to your own age…like Akar.”

            “Akar?” She reared back to better study him, as if to determine whether he was serious or not.

            “Yes, I mean he is more your age.” Bane smiled. “He wanted to dance with you last month when Passat played for all of us.”

            “Why didn’t he?”

            Bane shrugged one shoulder. “He’s shy. And no doubt his injuries make him doubly so.”

            She seemed to consider this. “Could he dance with just one arm?”

            “Of course. I’m sure he can do just about anything with the right amount of self-confidence.” Then, thinking of her curiosity about the sex act, he almost regretted saying this, for he did not want Talia to naïvely broach the subject of intercourse with poor Akar. The boy could barely summon the nerve to talk to Talia about what she desired for supper; surely more intimate subject matter would totally undo the child.

            “Do you think I should marry Akar?”

            Bane stifled his laughter. “No, _habibati_ , I don’t think you should be marrying anyone just yet. Marrying is for when you are older; when you are a grown woman, and you know your own mind better. And when you find someone whom you love.”

            Again she took a moment to absorb all of this before saying, “Are you going to get married, _habibi_?”

            He scoffed and gestured to the mask. “What woman would want to marry this?”

            She scowled, instantly ready to defend his better qualities, as she no doubt had done to his detractors when he had first arrived here. “That shouldn’t matter. I love you with or without your mask.”

            “That’s because you are sweet. But, I assure you, outsiders won’t see me the way you do.”

            “Then they’re stupid,” she grumped.

            “Besides, you are forgetting, we men in the League cannot marry. Our devotion is to the League and no other.”

            While she was familiar with this code, her naiveté would not allow her to subscribe. “I think you should get married and have babies.”

            He chuckled. “And I think it’s time you go to sleep, little mouse, and take your silly dreams with you.”

            “They aren’t silly,” she grumbled as she surrendered by closing her eyes.

            Bane said nothing more in the hopes of Talia drifting to sleep. He wished he could kiss her cheek one last time and thank her for her kind words. Instead he gently hugged her tighter to his side and closed his own eyes. Within minutes, the soft hiss and quiet crackle from the fireplace serenaded them both to sleep, soothing away the sadness of this being their final night together.


	23. Chapter 23

            Bane feared that he might be unable to make the final fifty meters to the monastery doors. Every muscle and joint in his body cried out, and the cold made each breath through the mask a chore, his lungs burning. The frigid weather’s sting—worsened by the cutting wind—streamed tears from his eyes, instantly chapping the small bit of skin above the mask. The heavy scarf and woolen facemask increased the claustrophobia of the apparatus. The other men in the group trudged just ahead of him—three apprentices and Xing Lao. Only Lao moved with any sign of energy and endurance; indeed, he walked across the packed snow as effortlessly as he had a week ago when they had first left the monastery, a fact that made Bane both admire and despise him.

            At long last, just before he was certain that his joints would finally seize completely, they reached the doors. Once inside, sighs of relief from all of the apprentices drew a displeased glance from Lao. Bane wanted to throw the little slave-driving bastard down the mountain. Instead, he focused upon the warmth and relief provided by the anteroom as he used his back and shoulder to close the heavy doors behind them. They all swayed upon their feet as if in disbelief that they had made it back, their breathing still labored.

            When they started to remove their heavy packs, Lao barked, “No! Carry them to your rooms.”

            The thought of lugging the packs even one more step was torture enough, but to contemplate the dead weight accompanying them all the way through the monastery and then up the flights of stairs to their rooms drew groans. Of course, this garnered only another look of disgust from their instructor.

            Bane caught sight of a figure just beyond the anteroom, seated among the glowing candles in the Great Hall. He blinked several times, trying to adjust his eyes from the blinding white of the outside world to the dim black and orange of the adjoining room. Was his vision playing a cruel trick upon him or was that indeed a familiar shape? He peered closer.

            “Jin!”

            _Whack_! Lao’s walking stick slapped against Bane’s gut, its pain mainly absorbed by his parka and his brace, but it kept him from barging into the Great Hall. Lao gave Bane a severe shake of his head. Temujin had not moved an inch or opened his eyes. Of course. Bane frowned; he should have known better than to disturb anyone meditating, even his long-lost friend. But it was hard to dismiss nearly three months of worry over the Mongol’s fate.

            Lao scowled and gestured for Bane to continue to the dormitory, then followed him close behind as if to keep his student from doubling back.

            The climb up to his room was excruciating, but Bane knew Lao was watching from below to make sure he did not attempt to remove his pack. Just as he reached the level of his room, the door to Talia’s room opened, as if she had been expecting him at any moment.

            “Bane!” she cried, her face alight with happiness.

            “Talia, you are not dismissed!” Sangye called fruitlessly after her, but she was already halfway around the circumference of the catwalk.

            Quickly Bane tried to struggle out of the pack before Talia reached him but succeeded only in freeing one arm before she leapt into his awkward embrace. He staggered backward against the frame of his door. If not for that, the cursed pack would have sent them both tumbling.

            Talia bestowed rapid-fire kisses to his mask. “I missed you so much! And Jin is back! I couldn’t wait to tell you.”

            “I know, I know,” he laughed. “I saw him.”

            “Did you talk to him?”

            “Not yet.”

            “I haven’t either. Sangye wouldn’t let me.”

            When he saw Talia’s tutor waiting impatiently in the doorway to her room, arms crossed against his barrel-chest, a mild glower showing his displeasure with his errant student, Bane said, “We’ll talk to Jin later. Now go back to your studies before your father sees you out of your room.”

            “He’s with Damien.”

            Bane tried to hide his distaste at this news; he had grown accustomed to the American’s absence. “When did he get back?”

            “Yesterday.”

            With a grunt, Bane took up his pack again. “Go on back to Sangye. I will see you at supper.”

            Reluctantly Talia obeyed, and he watched her until she returned to her tutor. Before she stepped beyond Sangye, she tossed a final grin back in his direction, warming Bane inside and out. Sangye gave Bane a slight, satisfied nod before following Talia and closing the door. Bane smiled to himself, the pleasure of returning home heightening. Home. He used to think of the pit as his home, but the League and the monastery had successfully assumed that distinction. Once in his room and free of the pack, he felt even better.

            Dressed once again in the simple monastic garb of every day, he sprawled on his bed. A fresh supply of opiate crystals surged the drug through the small tubes from the rear canister. He breathed deeply, stared up at the ceiling, then closed his eyes, reflected upon the past week spent in the mountains.

            Lao had taught them how to climb and how to rappel, though of course Bane had knowledge of both, thanks to his experiences with the prison shaft. But he quickly learned to respect the snow and ice, two elements completely foreign to him and ever changing, not constant like stone. During the week, he—like the other students—suffered his share of slips and falls, saved only by his harness and safety line, moments that sent a surge of terror through him. Yet the fear lasted only a moment, and afterwards he enjoyed the rush of adrenaline that the incidents stirred, and he found himself taking risks that the other students feared to attempt.

            Lao had schooled them in survival tactics, from finding fuel for fires on the seemingly barren slopes to keeping extremities free from frostbite. They also honed their skills with a rifle, both on inanimate targets and upon wild game that Lao introduced them to, such as snowcock, tahr, and bharal. Bane learned how to dress and cook what they shot. They killed wolves as well and were taught how to skin them for their thick fur coats; these had been carried back to the monastery with them, along with the extra meat. All would share in the feast tonight, and Bane smiled at the thought of everyone hearing that he had been the best shot among the group. He would tell Akar of how he had thought of the boy and his father when he had killed the first wolf. The more helpless of the creatures, such as tahr, Bane took little pleasure in killing, but when the wolf had come into his sights, he had felt no remorse in pulling the trigger, especially when he thought of Akar spending the rest of his life mutilated.

            He was eager to see Temujin, to learn about the Mongol’s quest as well as to tell him about all that he had learned since he had left. Surely Temujin’s return signified a decision to remain with the League. And though Bane had come to respect and appreciate Lao, he preferred Temujin as his instructor.

            Exhaustion claimed Bane before he could leave his bed, and by the time he awoke, Talia was at his door, telling him that he was late for supper.

            “Did you behave while I was gone?” he asked as he carried her piggyback down the stairs.

            “Of course.”

            “No doubt only because your father is here,” he teased.

            She laughed and reached around to cover his eyes.

            He stopped. “Are you trying to kill us both?”

            “Walk the rest of the way without looking,” she challenged.

            “You know I can. But if your father sees me doing so with you on my back…”

            Talia giggled and lifted her hands, then kissed his neck once. “I missed you so much, _habibi_.”

            “And I missed you, little mouse.” He continued on his way, breathing fully and deeply to draw in the welcome scent of warm food, his stomach growling loud enough for Talia to hear.

            When they reached the common room, everyone was already at table, including Temujin. When he turned his gaze to Bane, the Mongol smiled, but the happy expression could not mask the fatigue that hung over the small man like a cloak, his face thinner than Bane remembered, with shadowy lines under his eyes, his shoulders slightly rounded. Temujin sat at the end of the table with the more senior members of the League, including Damien Chase who looked no worse for wear after having been gone two months. Bane took his place at the opposite end, and Talia scampered to her usual chair next to her father who sat at the head of the table. Rā’s al Ghūl was not present.

            Akar came from the kitchen with a tray bearing _ema datshi_. As he brought the spicy fare to the table, he gave Bane a private smile, obviously pleased to see him. Bane nodded to him.

            “Before we begin,” Ducard said, raising his voice to dissipate the conversations that had already sprung up around the table, “I’d like to thank Xing Lao and his hunting party for providing us with this bounty. And I understand he was very pleased with his pupils’ skills during the expedition.”

            Lao grumbled something, appearing displeased that Ducard would openly share his satisfaction, no doubt concerned such talk would go to the apprentices’ heads. But Ducard only smiled over Lao’s Mandarin protest.

            “Bane shot a wolf for me,” Talia announced. “Jamyang is going to make me a coat from its fur.”

            Chase raised his wine glass as if in tribute, though his attention only flicked at Bane. “It will no doubt compliment the scarf I brought back for you.”

            “A scarf?” Talia’s expression opened in surprised excitement.

            “Yes, I will give it to you after supper.”

            “And one last thing before we begin,” Ducard said after enjoying his daughter’s smile. “I want to welcome Temujin back to our ranks after his long absence. And I am pleased to announce that he has decided to rejoin us permanently.”

            Comments of approval rose from all around, though Bane noticed that Chase’s smile toward Temujin seemed less than genuine. Talia, of course, was the most effusive.

            “Are you going to be Bane’s teacher again?” she pressed.

            “Talia,” Ducard mildly scolded. “That has not been discussed, nor is this the place to do so.”

            Sheepishly she rolled her lips together and diverted her attention to Bane, who winked appreciatively at her.

            “So,” Ducard said, standing with his wine glass in hand. “A toast…to our brother’s return.” He raised his glass. “To Temujin.”

            “To Temujin,” Bane said along with the others, all lifting their glasses in the direction of the embarrassed Mongol.

            Temujin managed to mutter his thanks before protesting, “All this talk is making the food cold, so…” He gestured over the table.

            As the men eagerly began to fill their plates, Bane removed his mask. Though he still felt self-conscious about baring his wounds to others, especially while at table, he had begun to grow accustomed to it. When he had first done so, he had consumed his food as quickly as possible to limit exposure, but over time he had allowed himself to slow down. Now, when he lifted his attention from his plate with its specially prepared fare, he found Talia smiling at him. Then she called to Temujin as discreetly as she could through the conversations, and once she had the Mongol’s attention, she flicked her eyes toward Bane. As Temujin’s focus shifted to him, Bane gave Talia a dissuading shake of his head, his face coloring. Temujin’s small grin of satisfaction did nothing to help Bane’s discomfiture. Yet, truth be told, he appreciated the admiration and satisfaction on Temujin’s face.

            After the meal, Bane retreated to his room to irrigate his mouth and don the mask once more. By then Talia was at his door, entering after nothing more than a perfunctory knock as she sometimes did, though he scolded her each time for it.

            “Look what Damien gave me!” she cried, hurrying to the bathroom where Bane—bare-chested—was affixing a fresh fentanyl patch to his upper arm. In the doorway she twirled, sending the ends of a scarf wrapped about her neck flying like wings. “Isn’t it beautiful? It reminds me of Mama’s blanket.”

            To Bane’s surprise, the colors of the woven scarf did indeed match those of the cherished blanket. Its beauty only served to irritate Bane, especially because he had been crocheting a scarf for her. But he hid his reaction, saying, “Yes, it’s lovely.”

            “I’m going to show it to Jin. He came upstairs,” she said excitedly. “Let’s go talk to him.”

            “How do you know he wants company? He looks tired. Maybe he could use some peace and quiet.”

            “No, he wants to see you.”

            “How do you know?”

            “He told me earlier when you were sleeping. He wants to hear about your training.”

            “Then he will come to find me when he’s ready to talk.”

            “No,” she wheedled, hurrying to his bed where she scooped up his shirt then returned with it thrust before her. “Let’s go to his room. He has a present for me.”

            Purposefully slow, Bane took the shirt in hand, his smile crooked behind the mask. “Another present, eh?” He tsked and pulled the shirt over his head. “A present from me, a present from Chase, a present from Jin. I think someone’s a bit spoiled.”

            She grinned and took his hand, urging him toward the door. “C’mon.”

            “Very well. But let me grab my tunic.”

            Talia would not let go of his hand until they reached Temujin’s door, then she hurried to knock before Bane could. When the Mongol called out to invite them in, Talia beamed up at him in triumph, then led the way inside.

            “Jin!” she shouted as if seeing him for the first time since his return, running to him where he stood from his rumpled bed. Obviously he had been about to retire for the night, but the lassitude left his eyes when he caught the girl up in his arms.

            “You have grown three inches since I left.”

            Talia giggled. “Have not.”

            Temujin set her down and stepped back to study her. “Well then, at least two.” He grinned beneath his freshly trimmed, narrow mustache. “And it looks like our young bull has gained some weight. I am pleased to see it.” He shook Bane’s hand. “And some strength as well, eh?”

            “Lao isn’t quite the taskmaster that you are, Jin, but he’s close.”

            Temujin laughed. “Don’t flatter me, boy. I know a lie when I hear it.”

            He invited them to sit near the wood-burning stove. There were no extra furnishings in the room, so Bane sat on the coarse rug laid before it. Talia nestled close beside him, reminding him of similar nights in their prison cell when they had enough fuel to light their brazier. Temujin dug through a canvas bag beside his bed, then came to settle cross-legged near Talia. He held out a small leather pouch.

            “This is for you,” the Mongol said, the light through the stove grate sparking in his dark eyes.

            “What is it?” Talia asked as she started to pull the rawhide drawstrings open.

            “It used to belong to my mother-in-law. On my way back here, I stopped in the village near where I used to live. I had left a few things there.”

            “It’s an elephant!” Talia drew forth a small ivory carving. “It’s beautiful, Jin.”

            “It will bring you good luck,” Temujin said. “It is small, so you can easily carry it in a pocket.”

            Talia offered the elephant to Bane. The ivory was cool and polished.

            “It is also valuable,” Temujin continued. “So don’t let Bane have it.” He winked.

            Playfully Talia snatched it back from Bane who laughed. Then she thanked Temujin with another hug and kiss.

            “Tell us about your trip, Jin,” she urged. “Did you find the man you were looking for?”

            “Yes, little one. I did. Thanks to your father.”

            “What did you do when you found him?” Talia asked, sobering.

            Temujin glanced at Bane, hesitated. “I did to him what he did to my wife—I killed him.”

            Bane saw satisfaction glint in his friend’s eyes, but it did not remain for more than a moment.

            “How?” Talia pressed.

            “How isn’t important, especially for someone as young as you to hear, little one,” Temujin said. “It is done and over with. Now what is important to me is you two. Tell me all that you’ve done and learned since I left.”

            Instantly distracted from Temujin’s revenge, Talia launched into a narrative that covered both her own studies and training as well as Bane’s, allowing Bane little chance to get a word in. He did not mind, however, for he—like Temujin—was feeling the effects of his own recent journey through the mountains, and he knew he would not stay awake long.

            “So,” Temujin said at the end of Talia’s tale, “Bane has been behaving himself, it would seem.”

            Bane frowned, his fingers twitching in his lap. “I’m sorry about what happened before you left. I didn’t mean to dishonor you. I didn’t realize—”

            Temujin grunted. “We all make mistakes, my friend. That is how we learn.”

            “I was afraid you wouldn’t come back because of it.”

            “Yes, I feared you might feel responsible. But, as you can see, I _have_ come back.” Temujin smiled warmly at Talia who still had the ivory elephant in hand, turning it over and over.

            “What made you decide to return?” Bane asked.

            Temujin’s smile drifted away, and though he still looked at Talia, a distant mist briefly clouded his eyes. “After I accomplished what I needed to do, I went back to my old village, as I told you. I spent two weeks there. I thought perhaps I would want to start over there, maybe reclaim who I once was before those men came down from the mountains and took everything from me.” He gave a quiet sigh, and his gaze cleared. “But I realized that I can never go back. Before, I had family there, friends. But it is not the same and can never be the same. That is the way of things.” His smile returned, though now his fatigue seemed even greater. “Like you, Bane, I realized the League is my family now. It is who and what I am. It is all that I am good at.”

            Affected by the man’s somber mood, Talia quietly asked, “Are you going to be Bane’s teacher again?”

            “I would never presume to reinsert myself after these months. Bane is no doubt used to Lao’s ways—”

            “I would gladly work with you again,” Bane hastened to assure. “I mean, if you would have me. Considering what happened, though, I wouldn’t blame you if you preferred not to.”

            “Lao is an excellent teacher. Better than me. He has far more experience.”

            Bane frowned. “Experience, yes, but…you…you understand me better.” He hesitated and tried to infuse humor to break Temujin’s resolve, “And you don’t carry a Yantok.”

            Temujin could not conceal his amusement, especially when Talia tried to stifle a giggle behind the ivory elephant.

            “Sure, it’s funny to you,” Bane teased her. “But you’re not the one with lumps and bruises all over your body.”

            “It’s true,” Talia said to Temujin. “Take off your shirt and show him, Bane.”

            Temujin held up his hands. “There’s no need for you to disrobe on my account. It just so happens that Lao came to me today. It seems he is weary of trying to beat sense into you and begged me to take you off his hands before he breaks his treasured Yantok.”

            Bane stared at him, for a moment fooled by his friend’s serious expression. But then a sly smile spread across Temujin’s face.

            “So you made me grovel for nothing,” Bane said.

            The Mongol chuckled. “Consider it a lesson in humility, my young bull. The first of many to come.”


	24. Chapter 24

            Talia’s petite form seemed even smaller than usual beneath the glowering gray gaze of the glacier. Rare sunshine flashed off the mottled behemoth and the smooth surface of the frozen lake that bordered it. Another two months and the lake would thaw, sending water to the surrounding tundra, allowing rebirth to the region’s limited flora. It was upon this lake that Talia and Akar skated, their laughter bouncing against the jagged mountains between which the glacier wound.

            Bane watched from the edge of the lake, perched atop a small boulder. His rifle rested at hand; while not plentiful, bears occasionally visited the lake, and their appearance was the reason why Talia was never allowed to come here without an armed escort. Now twelve years old, she was well-trained in handling firearms, yet this did not dissuade her father from always insisting upon one of the men accompanying her during her visits to the lake or other explorations beyond the protective walls of the monastery.

            The weather was mild with very little wind, so even upon the chilled rock Bane was comfortable enough as he watched the two youngsters. Akar chased Talia who successfully eluded the fifteen-year-old until her skate blade caught upon a defect in the ice surface. She gave a laughing screech as she fell and slid. Akar awkwardly circled her until he could stop without falling, then he offered his hand and helped her up. The boy boldly maintained his grip upon her glove as they began to skate again. Bane grinned beneath his mask.

            Though Akar’s relationship with Talia moved at a pace little faster than the glacier, over time the boy had become more confident around her. Of course his devotion to her was obvious to all at the monastery, but Talia’s young age still relegated the boy to nothing more than a friend to her, someone with whom she could get into mischief or go on adventures. And someone with whom she could skate. When her father had presented the ice skates to her for her last birthday, Ducard had generously presented Akar with a pair as well. She had begged her father to acquire a pair for Bane, but of course the request had garnered only amusement from both her parent and Bane.

            Bane enjoyed watching Talia skate, for this was nearly the only time she could behave like a true child, free from the restrictions of study and training. With the milder weather, she had forsaken a face mask for a simple hat and one of the scarves that he had crocheted for her. Her dark, shoulder-length hair flowed in her wake as she sped across the ice, her cheeks a cherry red, eyes shining, teeth flashing in a constant smile. On other occasions she had tried to entice Bane to join them, and sometimes he did, but today he again refused her entreaties.

            “She looks more and more like her mother,” Henri Ducard’s voice startled Bane. Somehow the man had drawn near without detection, a fact that disturbed Bane and caused him to berate the distraction of his thoughts. Ducard halted beside the boulder to watch Talia, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.

            “Yes,” Bane agreed. “She does.”

            The thought of Talia maturing always made Bane a bit uneasy. Adulthood would mean responsibilities and hard choices; he wanted her to remain carefree and protected. The pit had stolen childhood from her, but since coming here she had been able to regain some of what had been lost, and Bane wanted her to enjoy that for as long as possible before she had to become whatever it was the League required her to be. Yet, like Ducard, Bane could see the changes in her, both emotionally and physically. The latter included one tearful morning when she had come to Bane’s room before he had gotten out of bed, complaining of pain in her abdomen and back, accompanied by the alarming appearance of blood when she had gone to the bathroom.

            “There’s nothing wrong with you,” he had assured. “Don’t you remember what your father and Choden told you about puberty?”

            How he had wished that Melisande had been there that day to console and educate Talia. Of course when her mother had been alive, Talia had been too young to understand if told of such things. The stress of a prison environment had all but suppressed Melisande’s cycle, so Talia had few opportunities to witness its manifestation. And though Bane’s reminder of her father’s words had eased her somewhat, the stark reality of her burgeoning difference from all those around her left her disturbed and missing her mother. So he had wrapped her in Melisande’s blanket and tucked her into his own bed, then had gone to seek out Choden for a way to ease her physical discomfort.

            Ducard did not join Bane upon the rock but instead leaned his hip casually against it, crossing his arms, his attention still upon his daughter.

            “Papa!” she cried, waving when she saw him. “Come skate with me!”

            “No, my pet. You know I prefer to watch.”

            She scoffed at him and darted to the far side of the lake, leaving Akar floundering in her wake.

            Ducard sighed. “If only she could remain a child forever, safe here among us.”

            The close proximity of Ducard’s thoughts to his own surprised Bane. “She’s happy here.”

            “Of course; it is all she knows. But she has her whole life before her, and I would never be so selfish as to keep her here like a caged bird. There is so much life in her, like her mother. She must be allowed to fly and become far, far more than simply my daughter. Her mother would want it so.”

            The connotations in Ducard’s words made Bane’s fingers twitch, and he shifted on the boulder, which suddenly seemed much colder beneath him. “But,” he said hesitantly, turning to Ducard, “not any time soon, I hope.”

            Ducard glanced at him, and his amused smile returned before he looked back over the lake. “You may wipe those lines of worry from your forehead, Bane. I have no plans to exile my daughter just yet. And no doubt she will indeed think it exile once the day of her parting arrives.” Ducard straightened and clasped his hands behind his back, the smile fading. “But we must all prepare ourselves for that day; it will not be easy for any of us.”

            “What if she doesn’t want to leave?”

            “She will have no choice in the matter. As her father, I know what’s best for her…and the League. We can already see that she will be a beauty in her own right, and such beauty among men—even men as dedicated as our brothers—would be a cruel temptation. You witnessed this in prison, no doubt, with my wife. The manner of her death speaks volumes as to the primal drive of men, particularly men who are in many ways isolated.”

            Though Bane knew Ducard was in no way accusing him of having failed Melisande, the remark stung him all the same and caused him to respond impulsively: “I’d never let anyone touch Talia.”

            One corner of Ducard’s mustache twitched upward almost sardonically. “It may not be your brothers against whom you need to defend. Talia is an inquisitive, highly intelligent girl; such assets will not fade with age but will instead be enhanced by it. In fact, I am counting on it.”

            “What do you mean?” Bane asked uneasily.

            “With beauty comes power, Bane, especially among intelligent women. Talia will be able to wield her beauty like a weapon in the same way that you wield those lethal fists of yours.”

            “But…why would she want to?”

            Now Ducard turned to him, and any scrap of mirth had left his gray eyes. “Talia is no ordinary child, Bane. She is my daughter; she is the League’s daughter. And like all of us, she will serve the League. And being a woman, she will be able to do so in ways men like you and I cannot.”

            Bane swallowed in a throat suddenly dry. “I know you told me that Talia has a different path than I. Do you already know that path?”

            A glimmer of inspiration removed the brief chill from Ducard’s gaze. “Indeed I do.”

            Bane hesitated, knowing he was pushing his boundaries by continuing his questioning. Yet he had a feeling that Ducard had come out here to have this very discussion, not simply to watch his daughter at play. So he gathered his courage and asked, “May I be so bold as to inquire of it?”

            Ducard’s attention returned to Talia who was attempting to spin in place. “You may…with the solemn promise that you will not discuss it with my daughter. Not now certainly, at her tender age. But not later either. When the time comes, I will be the one to inform her of her duty.”

            “Of course.”

            “Very well.” Ducard lightly gripped the lapels of his parka. “When Talia is fourteen, I will be sending her to Switzerland, to a private boarding school. From there, she will attend Oxford to complete her education.”

            Fourteen? The number strangled Bane. Less than two years from now.

            “She will go to America after that, specifically to Gotham. She will be ideally placed to gain access to the city’s most powerful men…to one man in particular. He is the surviving son of Doctor Thomas Wayne and the heir to a global empire. The good Doctor and his spouse were murdered, a murder that has profoundly affected their son. In fact, he has since vanished and is believed to be dead.” The confident smile, though slight, returned. “I believe, however, that he is very much alive and that he will eventually return to Gotham. In time, he will be introduced to Talia, and I have little doubt that he will succumb to her charms. A man like Wayne, who has been a victim of Gotham’s evil, might willingly fund our efforts to bring justice to corrupt cities like Gotham.”

            “And if he doesn’t?” Bane prompted, imagining Talia unhappy in such an environment.

            “Then Talia will be in a position to acquire those same funds by other means.”

            Bane stared at Talia, unable to look at Ducard any longer, knowing to do so meant to reveal his deep displeasure over Ducard’s plans. He reminded himself that he did not have all the pieces of the puzzle, that as nothing more than an apprentice, he understandably was ignorant of the full scope of the League’s operations and plans. There must be wisdom in Ducard’s vision. After all, Ducard loved his daughter; he would never formulate such goals if Talia’s welfare had not been taken into consideration. And, bearing in mind the harsh life she had led thus far, no doubt the idea of her being surrounded by wealth and power appealed to her father on a parental level as well as a strategic one.

            In vain, he tried to conjure some acceptable response to all Ducard had revealed, if for nothing else than to acknowledge Ducard’s trust in him. But he could not tear his attention from the lighthearted girl skating pirouettes in front of him, laughing with a poor, simple shepherd’s son.

            “I don’t expect you to understand all of this now, Bane, but it is something you must accept if you are to become one of us.”

            All Bane allowed was a nod, pressing his hands together in his lap to keep his fingers still. He closed his eyes for a mere second, used the moment to defuse the indignation that was bubbling in him, drawing on all that Temujin had taught him about controlling his impulses.

            “And speaking of that,” Ducard continued, clearing his throat, “Temujin says you are ready for your final test.”

            Bane nearly choked at this secondary news, delivered so seamlessly upon the heels of the first. His senses reeled from the shock as he rasped out, “He did?”

            “Yes. Don’t sound so surprised. Surely you are aware of your own progress. Of course you still have much to learn; training is an ongoing endeavor for all of us. But the training you now require the most can only be found in the field. So, if you are able to pass your test, you will then be included in regular assignments, accompanied by Temujin until you have proven yourself worthy of independent operations.”

            Bane was dumbstruck. True, he was cognizant of his acquired skills; in fact, more than one instructor had told him that he had advanced faster than any other student, past or present, save Ducard and Chase. An accomplishment all the more stunning considering that both Ducard and Chase had received military training prior to joining the League.

            Ducard chuckled at his speechlessness. “Perhaps you have learned the virtue of humility a bit too well. I will have to speak with Temujin about his methods.”

            “It’s just that…well, I guess the time has passed quicker than expected.” As he contemplated leaving the mountains for unknown lengths of time, his attention again returned to Talia. A conflicting mix of excitement and uncertainty tightened his gut.

            “Tell me of the men you have killed, Bane.”

            Again Ducard caught him off guard, causing him to scramble for words. Though he and Ducard had had several private discussions over the past year, never had Bane revealed the fact that he had murdered three men while in prison. It was not that he was ashamed; such a question was simply never broached. The same tacit respect given to Ducard’s intimate past with Melisande. Bane had learned to avoid the subject of his mentor’s wife, for the few times when he had spoken of her, Bane noticed a distinct distance—almost a chill—in Ducard’s gaze as well as the tone of his voice. It was at such times that Ducard looked at him in the same guilt-riddled way that Talia did when his mask was off.

            “How do you know I have killed anyone besides my grandfather?” Bane stalled.

            Ducard shrugged one shoulder as if the matter were trifling to him, though Bane knew it was not, for Ducard never discussed trivial matters. “Do not think Temujin has spoken of it; he would never discuss such a thing with anyone without your permission. But it is something I must know—from your own lips—before you are to be tested.”

            Gathering his nerve, Bane methodically told Ducard of the Vulture’s death as well as Crazy Saul’s and Ramzi’s, the man who had tried to kidnap Talia.

            “All deaths necessitated either for your own survival or that of Talia’s, yes?”

            Bane nodded.

            “As a member of the League of Shadows, you will be required to kill again, as you know. Those whose lives you take will be most often faceless strangers to you, people whom you know nothing about beyond the scope of your brief. Are you prepared to do such things, Bane?”

            “I know how to follow orders.”

            “Yes, you have aptly displayed such an ability this past year. But that is not the question I am asking you. As I have mentioned before to you, we see flashes of leadership in you. Sometimes such men find it difficult to always follow others, especially in grave circumstances when you might question the logic behind eliminating a target. I must know that you will be able to pull the trigger even at such times.”

            Unsettled by the ambiguity of Ducard’s words, Bane frowned. Out on the lake, Talia and Akar were headed their way, obviously tired and ready to return to the security of protective walls and hot chocolate.

            “You mustn’t worry about what Talia may think of you,” Ducard said. “The same questions will be asked of her when she is older. You must concern yourself only with what the League requires of you.”

            Talia and Akar sat to remove their skates at the edge of the lake and pull their boots on. Bane stared at Talia’s back, watched her movements, listened to her voice. He did not want her to become what he would become. He understood that his own choices were limited—the mask made it so—but Talia…she deserved so much more. Why couldn’t her father see that?

            “Bane?” Ducard prompted.

            Bane slid off the boulder, realizing how remaining there so long had stiffened his back. He reached for the rifle then turned to Ducard. “You don’t need to worry, sir,” he said deliberately. “I will do whatever is necessary.”


	25. Chapter 25

            Bane emerged from his self-induced hypnotic state through a slow, controlled release. As he did so, his senses took over, sharpened by his long meditation and thus acutely attuned to everything in his surroundings. First, the scent of incense and candles, then the whispering voice of the dying wind against the windows in the Great Hall, then the weight of his clothes and the feel of the wood floor beneath where he sat. His eyes opened to find that the cloak of evening had stolen all light from the outside world, thus plunging all within to shadow. Temujin stood before him, dressed in the black attire of a ninja, waiting, silent, his expression unreadable. With his mind and body calm and supple, Bane climbed to his feet.

            Temujin stepped closer, his narrow gaze locked with Bane’s. For a moment nothing was said. All that had transpired over the past months fell away, all the hard work, the pain, the failures and triumphs. It was as if none of it had happened. And instead of seeing his master before him, Bane saw only his proud friend.

            Never blinking, the Mongol reached up to rest his hands upon Bane’s broad shoulders. Quietly he said, “You are ready, my young bull.”

            The assurance that rang in Temujin’s words bolstered Bane’s confidence even more, and he nearly allowed himself a smile beneath his mask.

            Temujin stepped back and surprised him by saying, “Now, before we leave, you are to remove everything except your pants, your support belt, and—of course—your mask.”

            Bane almost questioned the instruction, having expected that he, too, would exchange his usual garb for something similar to Temujin’s. Pushing aside his disappointed curiosity, Bane obeyed his mentor. Once Bane had finished, Temujin gave his pupil a final nod of approval then led him from the room.

            Bane expected that they would go perhaps to the dojo, but instead Temujin led him beyond the dojo to an adjoining building. This was of a similar design to that of the dormitory, with a central atrium surrounded by stairs and mezzanine-like catwalks. But this building’s lowest level lacked flooring; instead the barren earth of the mountain itself provided a base. From that base arose a number of tall, thick wooden posts, surrounded by the rectangular mezzanine. Bane was very familiar with this simple apparatus, for he had trained upon it many times. The posts—cut flat across their tops—challenged those who stood upon them, subject all the while to two instructors wielding stout quarterstaves from the mezzanine, endeavoring to knock the student from his precarious, uneven perch. Balance, strength, and endurance were required to remain atop the posts. Yet surely, Bane thought, something he had conquered in the past would not be his final test.

            Lanterns hanging high in the atrium provided weak light. Silence shrouded the seemingly deserted building, and the chill rising from the unforgiving ground below clutched at Bane’s bare skin, caused him to shiver. The keloid running the length of his damaged spine seemed to tighten as if a cold finger scraped across it. As he looked upward to find the sparse light, the entire atmosphere invoked unsettling memories of the prison shaft. An almost tangible menace hovered in the air, but from what did it emanate?

            Temujin, his footfalls making no sound upon the wooden mezzanine, led Bane over a crosswalk. Beyond, beneath the overhang of the floor above, hidden by shadows, stood Henri Ducard, also in the black dress of a ninja. Beside him stood a glowing brazier, another reminder of Bane’s past life—his only source of heat while in prison. Temujin halted briefly before Ducard, gave a slight bow, then stepped aside so Bane could take his place. As Bane squared his shoulders to the man, it pleased him to realize that he had grown taller than Talia’s father.

            Bane sensed Talia’s presence just before he noticed the slight blur of pale color beyond the brazier, buried in the darkness. Talia’s attire was almost as puzzling as his lack thereof. She wore faded gray pants beneath a lighter gray tunic that draped, unbelted and shabby, nearly to her knees. Upon her head she wore a garment reminiscent of the _shemagh_ she had worn in prison. The last time he had seen her dressed thusly had been the day she had climbed from the pit, the day he had been attacked and mutilated. The memory and the unsettling sight distracted him, as did the concerned look upon Talia’s face, as if she were about to warn him of danger. If anything, on such an occasion as this, he had expected her expression to be hopeful and encouraging. The decided lack of such emotions nearly caused Bane to speak, though Temujin had already cautioned him against saying little if anything.

            Remembering himself and why he was here, Bane forced his attention back to Ducard. The man seemed unaffected by the distraction his daughter offered. In fact, Bane got the distinct impression that Ducard was pleased that he had noticed Talia.

            Ducard began, “You have prepared yourself, mentally and physically, for this day. Are you ready to forsake yourself and pledge your allegiance to Rā’s al Ghūl? To justice?”

            “I am.”

            From the edge of the raised brazier, Ducard retrieved a small wooden mortar that contained an unfamiliar-looking compound. In his opposite hand, he displayed a dried blue poppy, Bhutan’s national flower.

            “ _Meconopsis grandis_ ,” Ducard said, though Bane already knew the flower’s genus. “Difficult to cultivate, just as it is difficult to cultivate a true warrior. Yet here we succeed where others fail.”

            Depositing the flower into the bowl, Ducard crushed it to dust with a pestle. When he poured the remains along with the compound into the brazier, a pungent smoke arose.

            “Breathe,” Ducard crooned.

            Without hesitation, Bane leaned over the brazier, closed his eyes, and drew in a deep draught of the smoke.

            “Breathe in your fears. Face them.”

            The effect was instant, making Bane shudder, capturing his senses like a fly in a spider’s web. When he opened his eyes, the world around him had become distorted, wavering. Feeling a slight touch of panic, he looked for Ducard. The man still stood before him, but his image was fuzzy, and his eyes glowed under the spell cast by the compound.

            “To conquer fear,” Ducard said, his voice magnified by the hallucinogen, “you must _become_ fear. You must bask in the fear of other men. And men fear most what they cannot see.” With that, Ducard drew a mask over his own face, so that only his eyes could be seen.

            The faint clash of chains sounded behind Bane. He started to turn around but felt Temujin’s staying hand upon his shoulder. He flinched as the cold chains draped over his bare flesh, weighing upon his shoulders, his forearms. Once they were secured, Temujin turned him.

            “You will mount the posts,” the Mongol spoke in his ear. “I cannot help you.”

            With the shadowy world shimmering around him, as if in a dream, he responded, “Then what?”

            “No questions.”

            Before obeying, Bane looked a final time at Talia. Her _shemagh_ now masked all but her eyes. He sensed her struggle, her desire to speak, but no doubt her muteness had been secured by her father.

            Bane moved carefully, reaching a hand out to find the mezzanine railing. The atmosphere seemed heavy around him, as if he were in a crowd, yet the air remained thick with silence and isolation. Why had Ducard spoken of fear? Simply to explain the hallucinogen’s effect on his senses? Or should he fear whatever test awaited him?

            As Bane climbed onto the railing, the chains shifted, challenging his balance which the hallucinogen already threatened to destroy. He stepped out upon two of the thick, uneven posts then closed his eyes, calmed his breathing.

            Ducard’s voice seemed to echo in the atrium, amplified by the drug’s influence, “What do you most fear?”

            “Bane,” Talia said plaintively, causing him to open his eyes and search for her beneath the overhang, beyond the brazier. But he could no longer find her. His heart began to pound, though he knew she was safe. Where had she gone? Why would she speak to him at such at time?

            He shut his eyes again to find relief but instead sharp flashes attacked him. The prison. Melisande’s screams as the inmates violated her, killed her. Talia’s infant cries when Ramzi had stolen her from his arms in the stepwell. The smothering darkness of his punishment in the solitary pit. The warm spurt of the Vulture’s blood. The roar of the men who had surrounded him during Talia’s climb. The overpowering agony from their kicks and blows.

            With a gasp, Bane opened his eyes, heard them, saw them, all around him now, on either side of the apparatus on which he stood. Eyes glowing blue and white. Bodies wraith-like, their black attire blurring them into the encroaching shadows. Bane wanted to look up, up to where the light lived, but he knew such a shift could jeopardize his stance. Then the first blow struck him, pulled another gasp from him as the quarterstaff drove the chains into his flesh. The second blow, this time from the opposite direction, challenged his balance. The third knocked his feet out from under him. He fell forward, his chest striking the top of an adjacent post, driving the air from his lungs. Before he could fall off, he managed to clutch the post next to him. A quarterstaff slammed down upon his fingers. Bane bit back an outcry, struggled to regain his perch.

            There were six of them, three on each side, quarterstaves flashing, striking like great cobras from the gloom. The drug’s influence upon Bane’s sight and the uniformity and completeness of the assailants’ clothing cloaked the men’s identities, morphed them from his brethren to the inmates who had beaten and torn him asunder. Their battering attempted to keep him pinned, just as the prisoners had driven him beneath them to the cold stone where there was no air, no hope. Bane heard his own respiration, as he had that terrifying day, but now it was different, different because of the mask. He closed his eyes, clung to that sound, found for the first time solace and strength in it; he was not in the pit; he was not that defeated prisoner. He was a warrior.

            The chains weighed him down against the post, attempting to immobilize him like the prisoners’ crush. But he gathered himself, absorbed the raining blows, breathed in deeply the mask’s balm, harnessed it. With a low growl, he regained his feet, the quarterstaves offering no mercy, no reprieve. The sharp crack of the wood against the chains wrapped about his torso echoed in his ears, jarred him from head to toe. His legs defied the painful strikes against them, his toes clinging to the edges of the posts.

            He began to move instinctively, arms lifting, swinging in all directions, expertly blocking blow after blow, keeping them away from the chains. His feet adopted an inner rhythm, a strange dance, moving from post to post, ever shifting, able to thus avoid many of his assailants’ swings. Two of his attackers leapt atop the railing, one on either side, putting themselves on the same level as their victim, closer, their weapons jabbing, trying to dislodge him. But still the dance continued. Soon two more mounted the railing, straddling the mezzanine so one leg was anchored on the handrail behind them, allowing them leverage to thrust even closer to Bane. But one was too slow, and Bane yanked the quarterstaff from his hand. He did not retain the weapon, however. Instead he let it fall to the ground beneath him so that his hands were free to disarm the next assailant who miscalculated.

            Emboldened by this, Bane concentrated on one man at a time, determined to disarm his tormentors. He kept his feet moving, his arms, more by instinct than anything else. The drug still endeavored to weaken him, but he fought his way through its entanglement. With a flashing grasp, he ripped another quarterstaff from an opponent, let out a grunt of triumph as it fell away into the grayness below.

            Sweat poured off him as he fought onward. He barely noticed the chains now. Instead of a hindrance, he thought of them as armor, protecting, not punishing. Soon the third quarterstaff was in his grip, but the man who wielded it would not surrender it. They tugged first one way then the other until Bane succeeded in unbalancing the man who fell forward with a small, surprised protest, glanced off one of the posts and tumbled to the earthen floor beneath the mezzanine.

            Three remained, all anchored upon the railing like determined eagles. Fatigue began to scratch through Bane’s adrenaline, but he reminded himself that his enemies would be just as tired as he. Now he concentrated on disarming two at a time, resolved to end this quickly. The repetitive strikes against every region of his body made each new blow that much more painful. His breathing had become labored, but the same was true of the three attackers.

            Ducking one swing, Bane caught the man’s quarterstaff on the follow-through, while at the same time capturing that of the single man opposite. A precarious moment of struggle as he used every ounce of strength in his muscular arms to wrest the weapons away before the third assailant could take advantage of his vulnerable stance and knock his feet from beneath him. First one, then the second, each man uttering a frustrated snarl as the quarterstaves clattered below.

            The final assailant, as if sharing in the others’ exasperation, increased his efforts, the quarterstaff a blur in his hands, battering Bane with fresh aggression. Time and again Bane snatched at the weapon, only to come up empty-handed. Exhaustion tried to topple him, his lungs burning, his legs starting to cramp. The drug had begun to wear off, his vision adjusting, becoming more trustworthy, accustomed to dimness, thanks to years in the pit. It was then that he realized it was Damien Chase who faced him. And with that knowledge Bane shifted his weight, stepped onto the posts farthest to Chase’s right. Chase was right-handed, so his left-hand swings would not have the same power as those swinging from the right. By the American’s fourth swing, Bane succeeded in capturing the quarterstaff. With a final twisting wrench, he tore the weapon from Chase’s grasp, nearly pulling the man over the railing and on top of him.

            Silence, broken only by his ragged gasps through the mask. Undaunted atop the posts, Bane straightened, eyes locked with Chase. There was anger in the man’s surprised gaze but also begrudging respect as he dropped from the railing back to the catwalk. He was joined by the man who had fallen below the apparatus. They and the third man on this side stepped back in unison, came to attention, as did the three men on the opposite side of the mezzanine.

            “Well done,” came the voice of Rā’s al Ghūl. He emerged from beneath the overhang, Ducard and Talia with him. The three stepped onto the crosswalk at one end of the apparatus and faced Bane. Talia had pushed her head cover back. Pride and admiration shone from her like the lanterns above, a smile struggling through her conjured decorum, her fingers kneading the railing before her, as if to keep herself from climbing out to him. All traces of her anxiety had been erased, and Bane realized now that she had merely been playing a part, one meant to draw upon his fears.

            Temujin stepped to the side railing, his face also now uncovered and—like Talia—unable to conceal his delight. He offered his hand to assist Bane, but after an appreciative nod, Bane stepped from the posts to the railing then to the catwalk without aid. His legs trembled from exhaustion, but as Temujin removed the chains, he stood as straight and assured as his aching back would allow.

            Rā’s al Ghūl beckoned him closer. “You have earned your place among these men. Now you are truly ready to become one of us.”

            With a wave of his hand, he invited Bane to follow them back to the brazier. Talia and Temujin hurried to light two lanterns hanging nearby. This illuminated the small area beneath the overhang where Rā’s al Ghūl stood across the brazier from Bane, Ducard to Bane’s right, hands behind his back. Bane tried to decipher Ducard’s reaction to his accomplishment, but the man’s face was unreadable and thus disappointing to Bane.

            Rā’s al Ghūl removed a small iron from the brazier. The glowing coals burnished the man’s heavy rings as he lifted the implement. Bane had thought the iron merely a stoker, but now he saw that it was actually a brand, small and round, displaying an obscure, angular crescent-shaped design. Bane could feel the heat emanating from the metal, but he did not balk at the idea of it being seared into his flesh. He stood straight and respectful, waited.

            “All those within our ranks bear this mark as a symbol of fraternity and dedication,” Rā’s al Ghūl continued. “It is affixed only by the one who leads us, only by Rā’s al Ghūl himself.”

            To Bane’s great surprise, the iron was handed to Henri Ducard. For once, Bane was glad the mask hid most of his expression, yet surely his eyes reflected his shock.

            Ducard tempered his complacent smile as he faced Bane. “Such knowledge of my true identity is shared only with those who have proven themselves worthy—both in trust and in physical ability.” His gaze reached beyond Bane to the warriors who still stood in their silent ranks. “The men gathered here are all veterans among us and thus are fully aware of my identity. Your fellow students, however, like you before now, are to remain ignorant until they have proven themselves as you have. Do you understand?”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Very well. You will accept this seal upon your person and thus be marked as a member of the League of Shadows. Where it is affixed is your choice, one of the few choices you will be granted from here forward.”

            Bane made his decision without hesitation: “I wish to wear it where all may see.” With that, he knelt and bowed his head. And as the hot metal pressed against his skull, he did not flinch.


	26. Chapter 26

            “Sit,” Temujin said, “before you wear a hole in the floor.”

            Bane had not realized how long he had been pacing in the small, airy room. The ceiling fan whirred quietly above the table where Temujin was cleaning his rifle, but otherwise the dwelling was quiet. The only other sounds came from the city of Cairo itself, spread out in a pale mosaic before Bane where he had halted near the balcony’s glass doors. Early evening drained the sunlight from the east, reddening the sky, but night could not come fast enough for Bane. He wished that he could see the fabled Nile River or the ancient pyramids, but this location offered nothing more than tightly packed residential buildings of nondescript architecture, tan and ugly. In the distance, minarets jabbed high above rooftops. Soon it would be time for the faithful to recite the _Maghrib_ prayers of Islam. Bane remembered the words from his time in prison, surrounded by many Muslims, but that was all the prayers were to him—words. To hear them again would only bring back dark memories of men like Omar Alam, men who had killed Melisande.

            “Next time,” Temujin said with the hint of a smile on his swarthy face, “you should bring your crochet with you. It will occupy your hands and settle you.”

            Bane turned back to his friend, glanced at the door, willing Ducard’s return. No…not Ducard—Rā’s al Ghūl. Bane still could not completely make that transition after thinking of Talia’s father as Henri Ducard for so long.

            “Once the sun sets,” Temujin said, methodically reassembling his modified AR-15, “we can sit on the balcony and perhaps catch a bit of a breeze.”

            Bane wished he could emulate Temujin’s relaxed nature, but instead he perspired heavily in his black t-shirt and pants, and his fingers twitched restlessly. The pressure of this, his first mission, would have been great under any circumstances, but having Rā’s al Ghūl at the head of their team only heightened Bane’s angst.

            A door opened on the floor below them, ever so slightly changing the pressure in the room. Children’s voices and laughter echoed up through the floor. A woman’s voice raised in an effort to be heard above the din, commanding her children to obedience and quiet. Bane turned from the balcony and listened, unwittingly smiling, instantly enthralled by the cheerful sounds of these strangers who allowed the League’s men to inhabit their home, now and—according to Rā’s—several times in the past as well. For a moment the voices transported him back to the pit, to when Melisande was alive and Talia was a toddler. Even in such a harsh environment, they had found happiness together, the same type of happiness that Bane now heard from those below him. He wished that he could meet them; perhaps such an interlude would relieve his tension. But then, thinking of his mask, he frowned—no doubt the children would be frightened of him.

            His unsettled feeling grew as he turned back to his limited view of the city. He had felt this way on the day he had met his father. Isolated, though surrounded by thousands of people. When at the monastery, he never experienced loneliness, but here among the populace of civilization, he was keenly aware of his differences—not just the mask but the social differences. He would never have a wife like Melisande or the nameless woman who lived in this house; he would never have children. He did not know what it felt like to work a job all day then return home to watch television or play football with friends, to go to a movie theater or attend a sporting match of any kind. None of these things mattered when he was in the mountains, but here his lack of normalcy taunted him, tempted him, especially when he thought of Talia inevitably leaving him. Somehow he needed to learn to ignore such pointless torments. Perhaps the time he would now spend away from the monastery would eventually help him dismiss such foolish yearnings.

            Rā’s did not return until shortly after dark. Bane had dozed off in a chair on the balcony, only to regain his senses when he heard Temujin stand. The Mongol patted his shoulder, and Bane scrambled to follow him back inside.

            “Gear up,” Rā’s directed, changing from local dress to the black clothing that Bane and Temujin already wore. The tone of his voice—cool and resolute—sent a charge of electricity through Bane, banishing his earlier uneasiness and sharply focusing him once more.

            They did not descend through the building and exit through one of the doors. Instead they rappelled from the balcony into the darkness of a back alley. Rā’s led the way to the opening of the alley where a black SUV waited, Hafif at the wheel. Rā’s climbed into the passenger seat while Bane and Temujin scrambled into the back.

            The vehicle sped through the night, Hafif expertly dodging pedestrians, animals, and the rare vehicles that shared these narrow side streets. Rā’s checked his watch several times. No one spoke in the tense silence. Bane’s assault rifle lay across his lap, his fingers twitching against it. For the first time the reality of perhaps being killed touched him. The thought did not frighten him; he had lived with the prospect of death every day in prison. The only alarm that such a possibility raised in him was his instinctive concern for Talia. But, he reminded himself, she would have her father. Yet…what if something happened to Rā’s as well? Bane cursed himself for even contemplating any of this. Now was not the time. But, he decided quickly, when this was over, he would talk to Rā’s about avoiding assignments together. The prospect disappointed Bane, for he wanted to be with Talia’s father as much as possible to increase his knowledge. And he also could not deny that he looked upon Rā’s as a surrogate father. But, thinking of Melisande once more, he knew Talia’s welfare had to come before his own desires, and thus separating himself from Rā’s during missions would minimize the chance that Talia would lose them both at the same time.

            “Two more blocks,” Rā’s said, his voice quiet, calm, and deep. He glanced once at Bane, an unreadable, serious look, then he drew a black mask over his face. Temujin did the same, as did Bane, the fabric camouflaging the pale molded plastic material that made up the front of Bane’s regular mask.

            Hafif shut off the SUV’s headlights after another block, and when they reached the next crossroad, he halted the vehicle. Rā’s checked his watch again then pulled his dark sleeve over it.

            Passat’s disembodied voice came over Bane’s earpiece from his location above the street: “We have a visual. Two blocks out.”

            Bane donned his night vision goggles, modified by Lao so his mask did not interfere with the fit. Forcibly he calmed the sudden rush of his pulse, breathed deeply. He looked behind them for vehicles, but this lane lacked any other traffic. His black gloves closed around his rifle, and he sat forward in the seat.

            The headlights of a car flashed past them on the cross street. With a lurch, Hafif gunned the SUV into a right-hand turn in pursuit. Quickly they closed upon the vehicle, the SUV’s lights now on high beams, the distracting light glaring in the car’s rearview mirror. Just before the vehicle reached the next cross street, two black SUV’s sped out from either side to block its path. The car slammed on its brakes, kicking dirt into roiling clouds around it. Hafif did the same. Immediately the driver shoved the car into reverse and slammed back into the SUV. Hafif’s seat back struck Bane’s goggles, driving them painfully against his face, causing his eyes to water.

            “Go, go!” Rā’s’s order blared in their earpieces.

            Hafif, Bane, Temujin, and Rā’s spilled from their vehicle as the target’s car now shot forward in another attempt to escape, but before it could smash into one of the other SUVs, a gun barked from atop a building. The sniper’s bullet struck the driver, and the car’s momentum faded. Four other League members leapt from the forward SUVs, firing their weapons. Glass shattered. Civilians scattered for safety. Traffic coming down the street quickly diverted. The men inside the targeted car returned fire but were quickly eliminated

            “The package is in the boot,” Passat’s words crackled in Bane’s ear as he smoothly approached the car. Passat’s team, which included the sniper, was located high in the surrounding buildings. Their thermal-imaging technology would have detected the man in the car’s trunk.

            Temujin was beside Bane as they reached the car. Standing to the side with rifle aimed, Bane waited as the Mongol wedged a steel bar near the trunk’s lock and leveraged it open. From inside, a frightened man—bound and gagged—stared up at them. He began to cry out against the gag and thrash in agitation. Bane slung his rifle behind him and quickly extracted the prisoner.

            “Hurry,” Rā’s’ voice in his ear now as the big man withdrew from a quick search of the car’s interior. “With me.”

            With the prisoner draped over his shoulder like a sack of grain, Bane sprinted after Rā’s and Temujin. Abandoning their smashed SUV, they instead climbed into one of the undamaged vehicles with Hafif and another team. In a veil of dust, the two vehicles fled the scene, headlights off. At the next cross street, they turned off the main thoroughfare in opposite directions. Next to Bane in the back seat, the prisoner continued to protest against the duct tape across his gagged mouth. Bane paid him little heed, the race of adrenaline overriding any curiosity over their captive. He could scarcely take everything in; it had all happened so fast. A part of him wanted to share his excitement, celebrate their success, but the silent faces of his team reflected none of his own emotions and thus squelched his impulses. Of course, he reminded himself, this was routine for them. So, with this in mind, he did his best to appear equally cool as the SUV sped through the darkened streets of Cairo.

#

            The roar of jets overhead told Bane that they were somewhere near the Cairo airport, but the room where he and Temujin waited had no windows. Though the closeness of the small space and the unfamiliar noise of air traffic agitated him, he kept this from his companion. Temujin dozed, seated on the floor in the far corner. Bane sat at a table in the center of the room. Besides a second chair across the table, the room lacked any other furniture and was lit only by a single, naked bulb.

            Once again Bane strained to hear the voices from the adjacent room. Their prisoner was there, being interrogated by Rā’s and Hafif. Occasionally the voices rose in a shout of Arabic, and several times the prisoner’s screams shot through Bane like an arrow, but after the man’s initial outcry, Bane did not flinch. He had heard similar outbursts in prison, either from men being assaulted by fellow prisoners or from those who suffered various forms of punishment for a wide variety of infractions of the pit’s rules. He considered such displays a weakness, and so the prisoner garnered no sympathy from him. Bane only hoped the fool soon gave Rā’s what he sought so they could return to the monastery and Talia.

            The prisoner worked for an arms dealer, one with ties to the League. He had been taken by Egyptian authorities several days ago and questioned for possible involvement in an assassination attempt on an Egyptian politician. Although the operation had nothing to do with the League, there was concern that during the interrogations he may have given up sources that could ultimately be traced to the League. So Rā’s was determined to find out everything that the man had spilled.

            Bane’s stomach growled. He glanced at his watch. They had been at this location for eight hours and would remain here until after dark. Passat’s team was stationed at different points surrounding this building, the men camouflaged in the attire of native Egyptians. Bane and Temujin had taken their turn on watch earlier. Bane hoped that they would leave here before he was impelled to stand another watch. The desert heat wore on him and challenged his breathing through the _shemagh_ that he donned while outside. So many years spent underground and then in the mountains had left him more tolerant of cold than heat.

            Another hour passed. Hafif and Rā’s left the prisoner and returned to Bane and Temujin. They said nothing as they entered, expressions taut and fatigued. Both sat on the floor beside their packs, Hafif softly sighing with relief as he wiped blood from his hands.

            Rā’s saw Bane studying him, offered a tight smile and said, “Not much longer.” He nodded his head toward the wall that separated them from the prisoner. “Does it bother you?”

            “No. I’ve heard worse.”

            Rā’s nodded with satisfaction, then closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. Hafif did the same.

            Half an hour passed. Bane remained alert while the others continued to relax. From the next room he heard the prisoner quietly sobbing, mumbling as if still answering questions, or perhaps he was praying. Bane scoffed, for he had no belief of an all-powerful deity who cared one stitch about the miserable lives of men. The sounds faded by the time Rā’s and Hafif arose and left the room. Bane got to his feet, his back tight and aching from the unforgiving chair. Temujin stirred, coughed, looked up with bleary eyes at Bane, offered a sleepy smile.

            The interrogation in the next room resumed, but this time the voices were quiet, almost conversational. The low tones made it impossible to hear what was said, though Bane endeavored to decipher their words. Within fifteen minutes Rā’s and Hafif returned. Rā’s nodded to Temujin who, along with Hafif, gathered up their packs. When Bane reached for his, Rā’s’ hand upon his arm stopped him.

            “Hafif and Temujin will take our packs,” Rā’s said.

            Puzzled, Bane watched his two comrades shoulder their loads and leave the room. As their footsteps faded down the hall to the door leading outside, Rā’s drew his Glock from its holster, checked it, removed the safety and handed it to Bane.

            “We have acquired the information we need,” Rā’s said coolly. “We have no further need of our guest.”

            His pointed glance at the handgun made his intentions perfectly clear. Bane held Rā’s’ cold gaze, knew the man was waiting for him to question him or to flinch. When he did neither and took the gun, a hint of approval ever so slightly crinkled the outer corner of Rā’s’ right eye before he turned to lead Bane into the next room.

            The naked prisoner was bruised and bloody. The gore from his swollen face streaked and discolored his neck and chest. The strong odor of urine filled the hot room. With the one eye that could still see, the Arab’s exhausted gaze crawled up Bane. When it reached Bane’s mask, the eye widened as much as the beating allowed. Seeing the Glock, the man then looked to Rā’s, askance, confused. He began to desperately babble in Arabic.

            “No…No, I told you everything…everything that I know. I swear to you…”

            Rā’s glanced at Bane as if irritated with him for not immediately killing the man before he could plead with them. Understanding that this was to be done quickly, Bane hesitated only an instant longer as the prisoner’s supplications continued. The pistol was heavy in his hand, cold. He glanced at it then handed it to Rā’s. The impatience in the older man’s gray eyes exploded into anger, and he started to speak, but Bane stepped away from him. In two strides, he reached the chair where the prisoner was still bound, and in one smooth movement, he wrapped an arm around the man’s head, braced with his other hand, and snapped his neck.


	27. Chapter 27

            Akar glanced at Bane quizzically before he moved his chess piece and claimed one of Bane’s bishops. Surprised, Bane reared back from where he had been hunched over the board and stared at the seventeen-year-old. Akar chuckled at his own bold stroke.

            “You aren’t paying attention,” the young man taunted. “You didn’t expect mercy from me, did you? You’ve never shown me any.”

            “You wouldn’t be as skilled today if I had, would you?” Bane retorted with a smile behind his mask.

            He resumed silence to study the board and formulate a move to counter his shameful lapse. Akar was correct, though—he was indeed distracted, ears attuned to the upper levels of the monastery’s dormitory, waiting to hear Talia’s reaction to her father’s news.

            “Ah, there you are,” Choden said as he entered the common room. Bane only glanced at him as the Tibetan approached the small, low table near the hearth where he and Akar sat on rugs. “Wearing your new mask, I see. Let me take a look.”

            “Leave him be, Choden,” Akar said with a grin. “Don’t distract him from losing to me; it doesn’t happen very often.”

            Choden grunted and knelt next to Bane who stared at his black chess pieces. “Turn toward me, Bane.”

            “Later,” Bane grumbled. “After this game.”

            Choden sighed but made no move to leave. Instead he twisted himself this way and that, studying the latest version of Bane’s mask, reaching out a couple of times to examine it but being further rebuffed by Bane.

            “You might as well let him see it,” Akar said. “He won’t leave you alone until you do.”

            With a sigh of his own, Bane sat back from the board, arms crossed, and gave Choden a look of acquiescence. The Tibetan proceeded to examine the mask closer, turning and tilting Bane’s head in various directions as Bane rolled his eyes. This mask, like the prototype, delivered his painkilling drugs through flexible tubes; however, this version had four tubes—two a side—unlike the first mask that had utilized only one on each side. And instead of the tubes connecting to a single canister at the rear, each side had an individual canister, thus allowing a greater supply of crystals. This would afford him not only better control of the drug’s dosage but a longer duration between resupplying the canisters, something of vital importance when in the field. The new design offered a more stable fit, thanks to a crown piece that reached over his head from the rear of the mask to the front where it connected between his eyes to the central part of the apparatus. The materials used—a combination of metal, leather, and molded plastic—weighed less than the prototype, another change that Bane welcomed.

            “And what is your early verdict?” Choden asked, sitting back, a hand thoughtfully rubbing his chin.

            Bane shrugged one shoulder and turned back to the chessboard. “This,” he tapped where the overhead piece connected above his nose, “obstructs more of my peripheral vision. It’ll take some getting used to.”

            “Yes, it is unfortunate. But it should help ensure that the mask remains tight to your face. I understand the seals have been improved as well?”

            “Seem to be.” Bane’s eyes flicked over Akar’s white pieces. The boy had grown crafty over the four years that he had known him. Again Bane’s thoughts went to Talia. Akar would no doubt be heartbroken when he heard the news today. Rā’s had been wise to keep his plans from everyone else.

            “Well,” Choden said, rising, “I will leave you to your game then.”

            “Talia!” Rā’s’ distant voice echoed from above, drawing their attention.

            The sound of someone’s rapid descent of the stairs instinctively drew Bane to his feet. By the time he reached the center of the common room and looked up, Talia was already close enough for him to see tears on her cheeks. Above her, standing just outside her bedroom, Rā’s looked over the railing after her, a frown heavy upon his face, but he did not pursue her.

            When Talia reached the base of the stairs in the common room, she faltered when she saw Bane, the anger and hurt in her eyes blossoming. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she blurted out. Not waiting for his answer, she bolted from the room, her long, dark hair fluttering behind her like a flag.

            “Talia!” he called. “Wait!”

            Akar hurried across the room. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

            “Let me talk to her,” Bane said. “Alone.”

            He hurried after Talia, rushing to keep her in his sights. She raced past anyone in her way, ignoring all who called out to her in her headlong flight. She nearly eluded Bane who was afraid that she might flee outside into the frigid cold without a coat. But at last she stopped running, and he found her huddled beside one of the tall, opaque windows in the empty Great Hall. There her crumpled silhouette gave her away, her legs drawn up to her chest, her arms wrapped around them, face buried against her knees. Her sobs were the only sound in the room. Even the wind outside had died away.

            “Talia…”

            Her head jerked up. “Leave me alone,” she said and turned away to face the corner.

            Her uncharacteristic words cut Bane deeply, but he ignored her directive and drew slowly closer until he knelt beside her.

            “Talia—”

            “You knew. Papa said you knew he was going to send me away. You knew a long time ago, but you didn’t tell me.”

            “I promised your father that I would not. Surely he told you that.”

            “It doesn’t matter; we tell each other everything. How could you keep it from me? How can you both send me away? It should be my decision, too.”

            “I don’t want you to go. You know that.”

            “Then why didn’t you change Papa’s mind?” Still she remained turned from him, one wet, trembling hand pulling at her lower lip.

            “It’s not my place to change his mind, especially when he has only the best intentions for you.” Thinking of Rā’s’ ultimate plan to match her up with the obscenely wealthy Bruce Wayne, he had to bite back his own bitterness.

            “Best intentions?” she scoffed, some of her sorrow giving way to indignation. “I don’t want to go to some snooty school in Switzerland. I can learn all I need to know right here, with you.”

            “Le Rosey is the best private school in the world. You should be excited and grateful that your father is bestowing such a privilege upon you.”

            Talia abruptly looked over her shoulder at him. “Would _you_ be excited and grateful to go there?”

            “This isn’t about me,” Bane said in a rebuking tone that caused her gaze to fall away. “It’s too late for me to go to school, but you have your whole life ahead of you, so many opportunities. And you must take advantage of them.”

            “You said we’d always be together,” she mumbled, sniffing back some of her tears. “You promised Mama that you would take care of me.”

            “Talia…” He settled beside her, brushed her hair back away from her face then rested his hand upon her shoulder until she finally turned to him. The tears had stopped, and the anger had begun to fade, but the hurt still filled her blue eyes. “I know what I promised,” he murmured. “And I will always keep that promise.”

            “Then tell Papa that he must let me stay, at least until I’m older.”

            “ _Habibati_ , I answer to your father, just as you do. But if I thought his decision to send you to Le Rosey was a bad one, I would speak against it. But it’s not. It will be a wonderful opportunity for you. You will meet so many new people and learn so much; you’ll see so much. They will take you on excursions to places like Mexico, Kenya, the United States. Your father told me all about the school, and since I first heard of it, I made it my business to learn all I could; he doesn’t even know that. You will have the chance to be with others your age. You can _be_ young, as you should. It is a better place for a child than here among nothing but men.”

            “I’m not a child! I’m fourteen now. You said yourself I’m a woman.”

            “ _Almost_ a woman,” he reminded with a small smile that he hoped would break through her stubbornness. He slipped his arm around her. “Come here.” Begrudgingly she allowed him to draw her into his arms. _Yes_ , _almost a woman_ , he thought as her budding breasts pressed against him. Their physical closeness provoked more tears from her, so he said nothing for a time, simply stroking her hair, beautiful and silky like her mother’s.

            “Please don’t let him send me away.”

            “Hush, _habibati_.”

            “I’m afraid. It will be so different. I’ll be lost.”

            Her fears broke his heart, and he hated himself for not having a solution. “Your father will be near for a while.”

            Talia looked up at him, her long lashes thick with tears. “Come with us.”

            “It’s not my place; it’s your father’s. If he wanted me to come, he would have asked me.”

            “I can ask him. If I ask him, he—”

            Bane pressed a finger to her lips. “No. You will only hurt his feelings.”

            She pulled his hand away. “I don’t care—”

            “You must.” As she started to protest further, he interrupted, “Listen to me, Talia.” His harsh tone succeeded in silencing her. “When you escaped the pit, your father could have done to you what my father did to me—he could have rejected you. But he didn’t. He has done so much for both of us. Now, I don’t want you to go any more than you do, but your father is once again offering you something priceless: an education that goes beyond what books can offer you. Le Rosey will open all sorts of doors for you, even after you have graduated.” He tipped her chin up so she could see the teasing smile in his eyes. “And I’m sure you will steal the heart of every boy at school.”

            Talia blushed and brushed his hand aside again, mumbling, “The girls’ campus is separate from the boys’.”

            “But you will not always be in class.”

            Her color deepened. “Stop it, _habibi_. You aren’t going to change my mind.”

            Bane chuckled and drew her close again. He remembered how easy it had once been to hold her on his lap. How much she had grown! Though fine of bone and delicate, there was no denying that she was indeed becoming an adult. No doubt by the time he next saw her, the transition would be even more noticeable. The thought of missing so much of her life brought a fresh wave of sadness over him, and he found that he could no longer tease her. Instead he held her tighter.

            “Once you are away,” he softly assured, “you will wonder why you ever wanted to stay here.”

            “No, I won’t. I want to stay here because of you and Papa. That will never change.”

            “But we can only offer you so much. You deserve to fall in love and have a family, like your mother did. She was never able to live the life she wanted because of her father. You have that chance, and she would want you to take it. That’s what she would say if she were here today. You wouldn’t want to disappoint her, would you?”

            One corner of Talia’s lips twitched in a chagrined frown. She caressed his right hand, gently played with his damaged small finger. Near a whisper, she said, “You loved Mama, didn’t you, _habibi_?”

            “Of course.”

            “I mean…you loved her like Papa loved her.”

            Stunned, Bane could not respond. His fingers twitched beneath Talia’s touch.

            She looked deep into his eyes, and he found himself powerless to look away, to deny. “That’s why you’ve kept her blanket, isn’t it?”

            He drew his hand away from her, rubbed it absently against his thigh. Talia’s unwavering stare told him that she would not give up until he answered truthfully. And the fact that he had injured her by concealing her father’s plans for her education made it nearly imperative that he not deceive her again.

            “You can tell me,” Talia quietly urged. “I won’t say anything to Papa.”

            Of course Bane knew that even if Talia did speak of this to Rā’s, she would not be telling her father anything that he did not already suspect; Bane saw that awareness whenever the man’s gaze touched upon Melisande’s blanket.

            “Yes,” he murmured at last, staring at the frosted window. “I loved her very much. But you must understand it meant nothing to her, even if she knew; she loved your father, of course, and stayed faithful to him. How could she not love him? He is a remarkable man.”

            Talia reached up and placed her hands on either side of his mask so he had to look at her. “You are a remarkable man, too.”

            “I am a soldier. That’s all I need to be.”

            She shook her head. “No. Someday you will be much more than that. You will be greater than my father.”

            “Talia—”

            “I’m not the only one who thinks that,” she rushed on. “I think Chase believes it, too. That’s why there’s always tension between you two.”

            Bane gently extricated himself from her. “I think it’s time I return to my chess game, which you so abruptly interrupted. Akar is waiting.”

            “No…stay—”

            “And speaking of Akar,” he said as he stood, “I think it would be best if he heard the news of your impending departure from you first. We both know how much he cares for you. It would pain him greatly if he hears it from someone else. So once we have finished our match, I will send him to you.”

            Talia hurriedly got to her feet and grabbed his hand. “Oh, Bane, can’t you tell him?”

            “What did I just say?”

            She frowned. “I know but…it’ll make me cry all over again. And I don’t want to cry in front of him. I don’t want to hurt him.”

            “I don’t want him hurt either, but there’s no help for it now. So you might as well face that fact and dispatch the poor lad as quickly as possible to lessen the blow.” At the sight of her sad expression, he drew her close. “Don’t worry. I will be here for a little while still, so I will do my best to cheer him up after you leave next week. No doubt he will do his best to cheer me up as well. Now…why don’t you stay here for a while? An hour or so of meditation will strengthen you and help you find the right words to say to him to soften the blow. Unfortunately, he will not be the last boy whose heart you break.”


	28. Chapter 28

            Bane could not sleep. Even meditation or reading failed to bring him peace. Lying on his back, he stared at the beams above him; he could sleep in no other position because of the cursed mask, for to lie on his side caused the apparatus to shift and thus jeopardize the seals, and lying face down was completely out of the question. The embers in his fireplace sizzled, nearly spent, but he did not leave his bed to add fuel. Instead he tugged Melisande’s blanket up closer to his mask.

            His restless fingers absently caressed the blanket as he thought back upon the evening…the last evening before Talia would leave him. Jamyang and Akar had prepared a feast, complete with a large farewell cake, which had, of course, delighted Talia. She had been given the place of honor at the head of the table, her father to her right, Bane to her left, and she had held court like a queen, drinking in the men’s well wishes and sentiments for her new life. After the meal, Passat had entertained them with music, playing whatever Talia requested, including waltzes during which she danced with every man present, including Bane. Bane had kept up a convincing front throughout the evening, pleased to see Talia enjoying herself and distracted from the frightening unknown future that lay beyond these protective walls.

            Since learning last week of her father’s plans to send her to Le Rosey, Talia had slowly come to accept his decision, though acceptance certainly did not mean she was pleased with her lot. But she kept her complaints and regrets from her father and shared them only with Bane. Over these last days, they had spent as much time as possible together, and Bane was grateful that Rā’s allowed him to remain off duty.

            Since his indoctrination into the League two years ago, Bane often spent weeks at a time in the field, but those absences from Talia had been easily borne because he knew he would see her upon his return. How hollow he would feel now to come back to the monastery and not see her happy face or hear her joyful voice, or receive her kisses when he swept her up into his arms for a welcoming embrace. The very thought made his heart and stomach ache. Tomorrow’s farewell would be unbearable.

            He closed his eyes, flexed his hands against Melisande’s blanket, breathed deeply. When he opened his eyes again, he sighed and sat up, swinging his bare legs over the side of the bed, drawing the blanket into his lap. For a long moment he stared at the dying embers, traveled back in time to those nights in prison, after Melisande’s death, when he and Talia had lain tight together under this same blanket. Back then there had been no thoughts of separation, certainly no thoughts of school; there had been only each other, together in that moment, trying to stay warm, waiting for morning light to return to the shaft. If he had known back then what he knew tonight—that Talia would ultimately be taken from him—he would have held her even tighter, willed her not to ever grow up. He could not remember life before her, and he dreaded life without her.

            His training as well as his contentment in his life here with Talia, her father, and his brothers had helped him conquer the demons left over from the pit, the ones that had so dominated his nightmares and forced the flashbacks upon him when he had first come to the mountains. Now he wondered if Talia’s absence would cause them to return.

            He remembered her words from a week ago about Damien Chase and their strained relationship. Try as he might over the years, Bane could not see the man as anything more than a comrade in arms. And with Talia no longer here to put forth her usual efforts to draw them closer, Bane expected his feelings toward the American to cool even more.

            His hands traveled lovingly over the blanket, and he drew it close to his chest a final time before carefully folding it. After pulling on his pants, he stole silently from the room with the blanket in hand. He paused outside on the catwalk to listen. The dormitory lay in peace except for the faint snores from the various rooms. Satisfied, he blended with the night and slipped around the atrium to Talia’s bedroom. Without a sound, he slid the door open.

            The fire in the hearth still popped and hissed with life, sending dancing orange light across Talia’s bed where the girl lay asleep, facing the light. Bane easily located her pack near the door, stuffed with most everything she owned, awaiting her morning departure. He crouched beside it and somehow managed to squeeze Melisande’s blanket inside, pushing it to the bottom so there was less chance of Talia finding it until she unpacked at Le Rosey.

            When he stood, he found that he could not leave. For a long moment he lingered near the door but then succumbed to his emotions and approached the foot of the bed, careful to stay out of the light as much as possible. Talia’s long hair lay splayed about her pillow and across her fire-burnished cheek, her expression placid, her breathing deep and tranquil. Bane’s fingers twitched in a desire to gently push the tresses away from her face, to fully drink in the sight of her this last night. He remembered how Melisande used to often lie awake on the charpoy that she shared with her daughter, content to simply watch Talia sleep, just as Bane used to watch Melisande sleep on the other side of his cell bars…and as he used to watch Talia upon his own charpoy after her mother’s death. Times when he had felt truly at peace; times when he had felt hopeful.

            For a brief, insane instant he contemplated waking her up and stealing away together. He could protect her then; she would not be left to the mercy of unknown schoolmasters or fall prey to cruel schoolmates. And she would not have to marry someone like Bruce Wayne. He had found himself irrationally hating the man ever since the day Rā’s al Ghūl had revealed his plans for Talia.

            Finally, ruefully Bane tore his eyes away from Talia. Then, with one last glance from the doorway, he left her.

#

            Bane arose early to see Talia and her father off. When he stepped from his room, he found that he was not the only one: Temujin was waiting on the catwalk just outside. Seeing the Mongol’s empathetic expression helped lift some of the weight from Bane. Across the atrium, both doors stood open to Talia’s and her father’s rooms, and Bane could see them donning their coats and boots.

            Temujin said, “You have nothing to fear, my friend. She will not forget you.”

            Bane could not look at his mentor, instead keeping his attention across the atrium. “I just want her to be safe…and happy.”

            “She will be. Rā’s al Ghūl would never send his daughter to a place where she would not be.”

            Thinking again of Bruce Wayne, Bane only grunted.

            “And before you know it,” Temujin continued, “it will be Christmas, and she will be back here to visit, just as she made her father promise.” He grinned at the girl’s strong will. “And Rā’s has assured her that you will be here for the duration of her visit.”

            “I’m not the only one she will want to see again,” Bane said. “She will miss you terribly.”

            “And I will miss her. This place will not be the same.” With a conspiratorial wink and lowered voice, he added, “Rā’s may believe a society devoid of feminine influence allows men to think clearer, but I do not completely subscribe to that doctrine. Men without a gentler influence can lose balance.”

            Thinking of his mother’s impact upon his life, Bane nodded.

            Lugging her bulging pack, Talia stepped from her room, her long, single braid brought forward over her shoulder, lying against one of Bane’s scarves draped around her neck. She gave them a sad smile as she came toward them, her father following. Saying nothing, she took Bane’s hand, and they started down the stairs together. The lump in Bane’s throat kept him from speaking, but the firmness of his grip conveyed his emotions.

            In the common room, Jamyang and Akar supplied them with food for their trek from the mountains. Jamyang smiled at Talia and wished her farewell with a kiss upon the top of her head. Akar hesitated, self-conscious in front of the others, particularly Rā’s. He struggled to speak, his efforts causing Talia to shift her weight and bite her lip. At last Akar bent down and kissed her cheek then said a soft good-bye before abruptly returning to the kitchen to resume breakfast preparations.

            As they continued through the monastery, Talia again took Bane’s hand. The early risers whom they passed called farewells, and with each sentiment bestowed, Bane could see Talia’s struggle for composure eroding bit by bit. Now and then her large eyes flicked toward her father, as if to gauge his own emotions, but Rā’s al Ghūl maintained a rigid, disciplined visage. Yet Bane could see the older man’s own struggle now that this day had actually arrived. His resolve would remain strong, Bane knew, but once he had to truly say good-bye to his daughter in Switzerland and leave her in the care of strangers for the second time in her young life, Bane had a feeling that the pain of such separation would overwhelm Rā’s the way it was now overwhelming him.

            By the time they reached the Great Hall, Talia was trying to discreetly mask her sniffling. As her father shouldered his own pack, Talia set hers down, staring at the floor, not moving.

            Temujin crouched in front of her. He smiled and gently tapped her nose to get her to look at him. Her eyes were awash in brimming tears. “Warriors don’t cry,” he softly teased.

            “I’m not a warrior,” she mumbled. “I’m just a girl.”

            Temujin made a sympathetic sound and pulled her into his embrace. “You are much more than just a girl. You must always remember that. Now…” He drew her back, his hands upon her arms. The tears trailed down her cheeks. “Do you have the elephant I gave you?”

            “Of course.” She dipped a hand inside her parka and withdrew the ivory talisman.

            Temujin was obviously pleased that she had not left the figurine behind and moreover that she treasured it enough to carry it on her person. “Remember, it is valuable, so if I were you, I would not flash it around in front of your new friends.”

            “How do you know I will have any friends? I will be so different from them.”

            “Yes, you are different, and you should be proud of that, not let it hold you back. But I am certain you will have many friends; you will see. Others will appreciate your intelligence and,” he winked, “your beauty. Be open to new things and new people, but never forget your training, and always trust your instincts; they will never fail you.”

            “Will you come visit me, Jin?”

            Temujin glanced at her father. “I will see you when you come to visit us at Christmas. Your father has assured me that I will not be in the field then. But until then, I have work to do, as does Bane. That doesn’t mean we won’t be thinking of you. Never forget that, little one.”

            “I won’t,” she murmured, toying with the elephant.

            “Very well then.” His quick kiss on her cheek managed to draw a small smile from her. “My stomach is craving breakfast, so I will be off and let you say your good-byes to Bane.”

            “ _Bayartai_ , Jin,” she said in Mongolian.

            “ _Amjilt husey_ , little one.”

            As Temujin turned away, emotion twitched the Mongol’s weathered cheek, and he gave a quiet sniff while putting a sustaining hand briefly on Bane’s shoulder. Then he hurried from the Great Hall.

            Talia’s tears flooded her cheeks now as she slipped the ivory elephant back inside her coat. Her lips trembled as she looked up at Bane. His own vision had begun to blur, but he vowed that he would remain strong in front of Rā’s. He distracted himself by zipping up her parka and gently wrapping her scarf about her neck. She placed one of her hands over his, stopping his movement just over her heart. Her softness made him wonder when he would ever feel such warmth again. Her other hand caressed his mask, as if mapping its surface to remember once she was gone. The old guilt shadowed her eyes, and she began to sob. Bane pulled her into his arms, closed his eyes against his own tears.

            “You must be brave, _habibati_ ,” he said hoarsely, “like your mother was.”

            “I can’t be brave without you.”

            “Yes, you can.” He pulled her back. “You _are_. You always have been.”

            “Because of you.”

            “No…because of your mother. She is always with you. You must remember that.”

            Trying to sniff back her tears and restrain the torrent, she swiped her forearm across her eyes. Then she crouched beside her pack, opening it. Bane held his breath, afraid that she would find…

            Talia turned back to him, Melisande’s folded blanket in her arms. She used one corner of it to wipe away her tears then held it out to Bane. As strongly as he felt her gaze, he felt that of her father’s even more.

            “No, _habibati_ , you must take it with you. I give it to you just as you gave it to me when I was taken from the pit for my surgery.”

            “But that’s why you need to keep it; we gave it to you that day so you would remember us. You must keep it now for that same reason.” Softly she added, “Please, Ba-ba.”

            It had been a long time indeed since she had used her toddler name for him. And hearing it now made him again see that vulnerable child from the pit, not a young woman. His fears that something would happen to her beyond his protective reach nearly strangled the breath from his body, and the mask suddenly seemed new and claustrophobic all over again.

            The touch of the blanket, the pleading of Talia’s wet eyes destroyed his resolve, and he slowly took the blanket from her. A smile trembled on her lips before she threw her arms around him, the blanket pinned between them.

            “You will write to me often, yes?” he said against her soft hair.

            Reluctantly she drew back and murmured, “Yes.”

            “And to your grandmother as well. She will be so pleased to hear that you are getting a proper education.”

            Talia nodded as she draped the blanket over his shoulder then fiddled absently with the buckles on the front of his brace.

            “It’s time to go, Talia,” her father said, an edge of authority in his voice…and something else.

            Impulsively Talia took Bane’s hand, her eyes silently pleading with him to rally a last-ditch effort to convince her father to let her stay.

            “He’s right, little mouse. It’s time for you to start your new life.”

            She frowned and all hope drained away, breaking his heart.

            “You must promise me that you will do your best,” Bane said, endeavoring to lighten his tone. “Your father and I expect nothing less.”

            Dejected, she nodded.

            “Talia,” Rā’s said.

            Bane picked up her pack and helped her put it on.

            “Now,” he said as he wiped away the remainder of her tears, “you must give me one last smile. I don’t want my final memory of you to be of tears and sadness.”

            Only through a mighty effort could Talia produce a smile. Then, with one last embrace, Bane said farewell.


	29. Chapter 29

            Bane sat at the desk in his room, a fire crackling in the fireplace and Corelli’s adagio from concerto grosso opus six drifting through his half-closed door from Passat’s room one floor below. The evening meal had been eaten, and Bane had readily retired, both mind and body fatigued from two weeks in the field. He looked forward to sleeping in a comfortable bed.

            He set aside the letter he had been reading, one he had read many times since its arrival, and picked up the photograph that had come with it back in late July. Talia, sixteen years old now, smiled back at him, surrounded by six other students, boys and girls, wearing swimsuits. They had all smashed together upon one chaise lounge, faces bright, obviously laughing, some—like Talia—still wet from swimming. Sunlight glistened against tanned skin, Talia’s long, wet hair in disarray like so much seaweed. The opulence of a large yacht and the Mediterranean Sea’s sparkling blue waters provided the picture’s backdrop. Bane could not help but smile at the incredible sight of such beauty—the beauty surrounding Talia and the beauty that she herself had become.

            His focus shifted to the boy pressed against Talia’s right side: a Parisian named Patrice. Bane’s gaze narrowed with hatred. The two had been dating for a year; Talia’s letters to Bane had been filled with accounts of their courtship. She revealed that she had fallen in love, what a marvelous thing it was and how she wanted Bane to meet Patrice. When she had returned to the mountains last winter break, she had talked endlessly about the boy to Bane, at the same time doing her best to avoid telling her father the truth about their relationship, for fear of her stern parent putting a damper on her joy.

            “‘Books, not boys,’ he says,” Talia had repeated her father’s words, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

            “I tend to agree with your father on that point,” Bane had responded to which she scoffed playfully at him.

            Now staring at Patrice’s picture, Bane wished he could eradicate the boy from the photo, but unfortunately he was so close against Talia’s side that to rip the print would mar Talia’s image. Knowing that Talia had surrendered her virginity to Patrice infuriated Bane even more. The thought of Talia giving something so precious to one so horribly undeserving nearly caused Bane to crumple the picture. So he placed it back into the folds of the letter which he then returned to its envelope.

            The letter had been filled with details of her two weeks spent at summer camp, one of several such educational camps offered by Le Rosey. The first week had been an excursion into the Swiss Alps. Talia boasted that she knew as much—or more—about climbing and rappelling as her instructors. She wrote about the glaciers and how they reminded her of “our” glacier near the monastery, words that brought to Bane memories of her ice skating forays with Akar.

            Poor Akar, Bane thought. Whenever Talia returned to the monastery, the young man had to endure hearing about the various boys at Le Rosey, though Bane admonished her to temper such talk around Akar.

            The second week of Talia’s summer camp found the students sailing the Mediterranean, studying navigation and learning how to handle the sleek white vessel. Talia thrilled at the speed of the yacht and the beauty of the sea with its creatures of both air and water. Page after page of descriptions and musings, sometimes written in English, sometimes in French—one of several languages she was learning to compliment the Arabic and English that she was fluent in before attending Le Rosey. Of course she had a working knowledge of other languages, like German and Mandarin, thanks to Hans in prison and Sangye and others in the League, an education that gave her an edge over the majority of her fellow students.

            But her blissful two weeks had come to a disastrous end: she broke up with Patrice after finding him kissing another girl. When she returned to the monastery for the month of August, she spent the first several days in tears, spilling her soul to Bane.

            “If you’d like,” he had said, half in jest, “I will snap his neck for you.”

            She gave him a sideways glance, looking as if she considered taking him up on his offer.

            During their short month together, Bane—and Rā’s—kept Talia occupied both within the monastery and without to keep her mind from her break up with Patrice. Talia refreshed her skills in _taijutsu_ , sparring with Bane, Chase, and Temujin, among others. She hunted in the mountains and visited the small village down the valley where she had always been welcomed in her younger years. She played chess and backgammon with Akar who provided yet another sympathetic ear. Bane had organized evenings during which Shakespeare was read aloud in the common room, with many who were present taking on the various players, something Talia loved very much. Passat provided music a couple of times a week, and sometimes Talia would dance; other times she was content simply to sit and listen, tea or hot chocolate in hand.

            But then she had left again, off to start her third year of school. Her father, as usual, accompanied her and remained near Le Rosey for the first two weeks before returning to the monastery. Bane had left the monastery the day after Talia, volunteering for an assignment to take his mind off the fresh pain of losing her once again. The mission had been brief, and he had returned the day after Rā’s’ arrival.

            “Bane?” Temujin’s voice turned Bane toward his bedroom door. “Are you coming downstairs?”

            “Not tonight.” He placed the envelope atop the orderly stack of letters on the desk. Then he retied the thin strings that bound them together.

            Temujin came across the room to stand beside Bane’s chair and ask, “Does she keep your letters as well?”

            “Yes.”

            Temujin grunted softly. “Are you sure you won’t come downstairs?”

            “I’m tired.” Bane left the desk and went to his bed, where he sat to remove his shoes.

            Temujin ignored Bane’s hint, and instead of leaving, he sat backwards in the desk chair and crossed his arms along the back of it to rest his chin. “Your mission,” he began, “was a successful one, I hear.”

            “Yes.” Avoiding Temujin’s eyes, Bane removed his shirt, careful not to catch it on the mask.

            “But I also understand you exceeded your brief.”

            Bane hesitated only an instant. “I did.”

            “Why?”

            It was not unusual for Temujin to know the details of missions in which Bane took part or led; though four years had passed since Bane’s initiation, Temujin still served as his mentor, just as Rā’s al Ghūl still mentored Temujin.

            Bane forced himself to meet Temujin’s gaze. “I felt it was necessary.”

            “Why?”

            “To send a message.”

            “Are you sure a message was necessary?”

            “Yes.”

            “Then why weren’t you authorized to eliminate the target?”

            Bane scowled, wished Temujin would leave; he was too tired to debate operational issues right now. “Things are fluid in the field. You know that, Jin.”

            “Did your team members support your decision?”

            “I was in command. I found no reason to seek anyone’s counsel but my own. Again, this is something you know.”

            Temujin straightened in the chair. “Perhaps seeking the counsel of those older and with more experience is not a sign of weakness but instead a sign of wisdom.”

            “If they are so much wiser, then why weren’t they in command?” Bane went to the bathroom to relieve himself, leaving the door open.

            “I am well aware of your natural ability to lead men. But if you abuse that authority by exceeding your brief and leaving carnage behind you where bloodshed is unnecessary, then Rā’s could very well strip you of your rank. This isn’t the first time you’ve done this, Bane, and I fear it will not be the last.”

            Leaving the bathroom, Bane paused next to his friend, staring down at him. “Did Rā’s send you here to censure me?”

            “Of course not. If Rā’s felt there was such a need, he would be here himself. And he would not be as tolerant as I.”

            “Tolerant?” Bane snorted. “This is tolerant?” He returned to his bed and removed his socks, tossing them angrily to the floor.

            They stared at one another for a long moment before Temujin spoke again. This time some of the edge had left his voice. “I am responsible for you, Bane. Not just because I trained you, but because you are my friend.”

            Temujin’s words unexpectedly sabotaged Bane’s indignation, and he could do nothing but stare at his hands in his lap.

            “You say that man’s death was necessary. But I think the necessity came not for the League’s benefit but your own. And _that_ is what troubles me…as it troubles Rā’s, though he hasn’t shared his thoughts with me. But I know him well enough. _That_ is why I am here.”

            Bane tried to think of a way to counter or deny Temujin’s accusations, tried to recover his anger and thus his strength from a moment ago. The fire had yet to warm the room, but he did not allow himself to crawl beneath his blankets. Instead he simply draped Melisande’s blanket about his bare shoulders.

            “You may wear that blanket like your armor,” Temujin chided, “but you forget that I know what lies beneath.”

            “I’m tired, Jin. Can’t we talk about this tomorrow?”

            “No. It needs to be said now.”

            “So say it, then leave me in peace.”

            Temujin moved the chair closer to the bed then turned it around before sitting again. He leaned forward, forearms against his thighs, hands clasped. Bane shifted in discomfort, fingers twitching beneath the blanket.

            “I have watched you closely since Talia first went to Switzerland,” the Mongol said, the anger gone from his eyes, replaced only by concern. “Each time she leaves is more difficult for you than the time before. You channel your pain into violence, Bane. True, violence is often a way of life in our line of work. However, violence should come only to serve the League’s purpose, not our own. You know that.”

            Sullen, Bane allowed a small nod.

            “Look at me,” Temujin gently demanded. “I miss her, too, as does her father. But you don’t see us murdering someone just because Talia was hurt by some fool of a boy in Switzerland.”

            “That’s not why I did it, Jin—”

            “Not directly, no; probably not. But indirectly…yes. You will not convince me otherwise.” Temujin sighed in frustration. “I understand, Bane. I do. But you must be more aware of your actions in the future. You have come so far in the League; you are respected and admired by most. And I think you know why I say only ‘most.’”

            “Chase,” Bane grumbled.

            “Yes. As far as you’ve come, you still are subordinate to Chase and will remain so as long as you continue down your current path. Do you understand?”

            Frowning, Bane nodded.

            “Very well. We shall speak no more of this,” he raised a finger, “for now. But if you continue to allow your emotions to cloud your judgment, you will find yourself answering not to me but to Rā’s and Chase. And neither one of us wants to see that happen, do we?”

            “No,” Bane grumbled.

            Temujin reached out to pat Bane’s leg before standing. “I also came here to tell you that in the morning we are to report to Rā’s first thing. It seems he has received some long-awaited intelligence that requires immediate action. He wants you on the team, though I suggested you be allowed to rest since you have just returned from the field. He told me you requested another assignment as soon as possible, and so it appears your request will be honored, seeing as how this new mission requires the League’s best men. So, for now,” Temujin raised a rebuking eyebrow before turning away, “that includes you.”


	30. Chapter 30

            The scent of breakfast preparations drifted upward in the atrium, causing Bane’s stomach to growl loudly as he left his bedroom the next morning. The door to Rā’s al Ghūl’s room stood open, and Chase and Temujin were already inside. Once Bane entered, Rā’s directed him to close the door.

            The room was necessarily spacious, serving as both living quarters and office. A large walnut desk sat close to a bank of windows that reached from floor to ceiling. Rā’s sat behind it, weak morning light just beginning to lighten the frosted panes of glass. He was thumbing through a small stack of papers while before him lounged Temujin and Chase in unadorned wooden chairs, neither man looking particularly awake nor comfortable in the other’s presence. Nearby was a small, round table upon which lay several maps and more papers of unknown importance. Bane pulled out one of the chairs to settle in, wishing he could drink some of the coffee that the others were greedily sipping, its pleasant scent taunting him through the mask.

            Bane only came to this room when briefed for missions, and even then he never felt at ease here. Perhaps that had something to do with the framed photographs of Talia and Melisande on the desk. Though he longed to look at them, especially Melisande’s, to do so would require him to step behind the desk, something he would never do again after having been caught there one time before, shortly after coming to the monastery. Of course he had had permission to be in the room at the time; Akar had directed him there under orders from Rā’s himself. But when Bane had arrived, Rā’s had been in the adjoining bathroom. It was then that Bane had rounded the desk to admire the photographs that Talia had first shown him shortly after they had escaped prison. So entranced by Melisande’s stunning youthfulness, he lingered too long, and Rā’s emerged from the bathroom before Bane could slip back around the desk. Though Rā’s invited him to view the photos closer, Bane refrained, for he sensed no real enthusiasm in the man’s offer.

            “Forgive me, gentlemen,” Rā’s’ voice drew Bane back to the present as Rā’s set aside the document that he had been reading. “Good morning.” He pushed his chair back and stood but remained behind the desk. “As the three of you know, the League has an interest in Gotham’s Bruce Wayne. But as you also know he vanished several years ago. I just received intelligence that places Wayne in Shanghai. It seems the murder of his parents has driven him into the shadows of criminality. Now, I do not suspect that Wayne has truly _become_ a criminal; a man of his background, resources, and intellect has a deeper reason for such unprecedented actions. I believe he is lost within himself, trying to understand the type of man who preys on others, like the man who killed his parents.” A satisfied light glinted in his gray eyes. “Because of this, I now believe Wayne could offer more to us than simply a match for my daughter and what such a union could bring the League.” A sly smile reached his lips. “I believe I can convince Wayne to join us; I can show him a path that will allow him to avenge his parents’ murders and restore balance to both his life and his corrupt city.”

            Bane was the first to speak, “Are you saying the League would have no need for Talia to marry him?”

            Rā’s’ smile died. “Whether or not Wayne joins the League, Talia’s marriage to him will be of vital importance.”

            Bane could not curb his response: “But she’s only sixteen.”

            “I’m well aware of my daughter’s age, Bane. Of course I am speaking of the future…the not too distant future.” Rā’s crossed his arms. “But the game Wayne currently plays is a dangerous one. He has fallen in with a gang of thieves in Shanghai. We need to ensure that he remains safe until it is time for me to approach him, to offer him his new future.”

            “So we are to safeguard him?” Chase said.

            “Temujin will infiltrate the gang, become one of them. He will stay as close to Wayne as possible, gain further intelligence as to the state of his mind and his intentions, and protect him from any immediate threat. You and Bane will in turn provide protection from without.”

            “For how long?” Temujin asked.

            “I will leave that to your judgment.”

            Bane thought of Talia returning in three months’ time for her usual Christmas visit, and he was glad that his mask hid his frown over the possibility of not being here to see her.

            “You will report regularly to Chase,” Rā’s said to Temujin. “If the three of you agree that Wayne is emotionally open to our views now, we will extract him. But if more time in the underworld will make him more fertile to our ideas, then you will simply remain close to him.”

            “Very well, sir,” the Mongol said with a slight bow of his head.

            “You will have today to prepare. I expect you in Shanghai by tomorrow night. We will remain in close contact. I want regular updates on Wayne’s status. We must not let him slip away from us.”

            Once the briefing was concluded, Chase was first from the room. Bane stood but did not depart, torn by indecision and a feeling of unease. Temujin raised a questioning eyebrow at him. Bane offered a reassuring nod to encourage the Mongol to leave him alone with Rā’s. With a cautioning look, Temujin exited.

            Rā’s had stepped out from behind his desk to cross over to the table. “What is it, Bane?”

            “Sir, I…I’m not sure I’m the best man for this mission.”

            “You are concerned for my daughter’s welfare, are you not?”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “And you are concerned for the League’s welfare as well, yes?”

            “Of course, sir.”

            “Then you are the perfect man for this mission.” He bent over a detailed map of Shanghai along with recent satellite images. “You should know that I selected the three of you because you are the League’s best.”

            “Perhaps having your best assets all assigned to the same mission is too risky.”

            Rā’s straightened, his brow stormy. “That is my decision, Bane. Surely you are not implying that my judgment is faulty.”

            “Of course not, sir; it’s just that…” He faltered.

            “You want to be back here when Talia visits over the holidays.”

            “Yes, of course, but that’s not what I mean.”

            Rā’s frowned with impatience. “Then what do you mean? Speak plainly.”

            Bane’s fingers twitched at his sides. “I must tell you, sir, I disagree with your designs upon Talia’s future. And because of that I fear my focus on this mission—the directive to safeguard Wayne—may be compromised.”

            Storm clouds gathered in Rā’s’ eyes, and his nostrils flared. “Need I remind you that it is not your place to question my decisions, whether about a mission or about my daughter?”

            “I’m sorry, sir, but I feel it is my duty—”

            “It is your duty, Bane, to follow orders.” He had taken a step closer, the tension palpable between them.

            “And what if Wayne marries someone else before Talia is of age?”

            “Then I will do what’s necessary to remove any object in our way.”

            Once started, Bane could not stop himself, his anger revealed in the deepening of his voice, “Have you shared your plans with Talia yet?”

            “She will be told when the time is right.”

            “And if she rejects your designs?”

            “She will not.” Now Rā’s was close enough for his nose to nearly touch Bane’s mask. “And if you are foolishly considering telling her, I will remind you that you have already displeased me recently with your command decisions. Do not test me further on this matter, this above all others. Talia is my child, not yours; my family, not yours.”

            The unexpected words staggered Bane, though he did his best to conceal the pain. He could not speak, could not look away from this man who—until just now—had never so reminded him of his own father.

            Regret crossed Rā’s’ face and turned him away, back to staring sightlessly down at the map on the table. When he spoke, the anger had been tempered, “You have come far in the League, Bane. Besides Chase, I trust no one more. I would hate to see that trust damaged. While I appreciate your…concern for Talia, you must never again question my authority. Do I make myself clear?”

            At last Bane forced out, “Yes, sir.”

            “You will go on this mission; you will be successful…for Talia, for the League. And you will _not_ exceed your brief again. In time, you will come to see the wisdom in what I am doing. Talia has and must continue to move forward, to progress and leave behind the darkness of her old life. I expect the same from you.”

            Staring now only at the wall beyond Rā’s, Bane said, “Yes, sir,” each word strained and painful, his tight jaw aching.

            “Very well. You are dismissed.”


	31. Chapter 31

            The closeness and smell of the place—sweat and unwashed bodies, booze and cigarettes—irritated Bane. The room’s dimness, however, offered a balancing solace: his twenty-five years in the pit prison had conditioned him to prefer darkness over light, and here among the crush of men in this dank gambling establishment, the low light helped camouflage his mask.

            Bane stood from the poker table and pocketed his considerable winnings. The glances of his opponents revealed relief that he was leaving; relief not only because their collective pockets were now lighter but because the masked man’s grotesque visage made them all uneasy.

            He wound his way through the room, those around him sidling quickly away from his powerful bulk and strange countenance. To many, he was familiar, for he regularly came here to gamble, though his real purpose was to gather intelligence. Several of the men in the gang to which Bruce Wayne belonged frequented this place, including Temujin. But whenever Temujin was there, neither acknowledged the other beyond whatever was necessary at the gaming tables. The regulars knew better than to make remarks or send questions his way about his mask. Those who had been bold enough to inquire learned quickly through cold stare or stony silence that their curiosity would not be satisfied. More persistent men, especially those who gleaned courage from alcohol, found themselves bloodied, Bane’s fists effectively killing their interest.

            He squeezed his way through those loitering in a short hallway that led to the rear of the ramshackle building. A blend of Mandarin and Wu Chinese battered his ears, staccato, animated voices. He passed a couple of rooms, doors ajar. Women’s voices inside. False laughter as they amused their clients. Briefly Bane thought of Talia, thankful that she did not have to lead the type of life that so many women led here in Shanghai’s slums.

            Raucous laughter and shouting exploded from the back room just before Bane stepped through the door. Dozens of men stood in a circle, facing inward, gesticulating as they urged on the feathery combatants in the smoke-filled room. The hoarse, challenging voices of two roosters struggled to be heard above the din as they bloodied one another in the ring. Damien Chase stood among the spectators on the far side of the room, near the back door, money gripped in his fists, eyes alight as he yelled. Bane did not attempt to see the fighters, for he felt nothing but disdain for the so-called sport of cock fighting. Easy for men to force an animal to brawl and shed blood for their amusement, but those same men if challenged to a fight would turn tail and run. Bane had no use for such men.

            To touch Chase, he had to reach between several men. The simple sight of Bane’s formidable arm drew wary backward glances, and the men—all so much smaller than he—pushed into those beside them to get as far away from Bane as they could. When he grasped Chase’s shoulder, the American jerked around, a hostile spark in his eyes. Seeing Bane, he relaxed.

            Bane leaned in to be heard, “I’m leaving.” This close, it was easy to smell the alcohol on Chase.

            Chase gave him a curt nod of acknowledgement then turned back to the fight.

            Bane left through the back door, which opened into an alley so narrow that he nearly had to turn sideways to make it out to an adjoining street; in actuality, barely a street, for the hovels and shacks on either side pressed in close. Few who lived and worked here had automobiles, though, so a wide avenue was not necessary; most rode motorcycles, scooters, or bikes or simply walked to wherever they needed to go. Even at this hour, many of the locals sat in front of their dilapidated homes, many of which consisted of single rooms where entire families were housed—mother, father, child, grandparents, aunts and uncles. There were a few children in the shadows, orphans who lived on the streets, seeking food and shelter wherever they could be found. Again, Bane thought of Talia and the lifestyle she led. No doubt most of these urchins had no education at all. Dirty faces, hungry eyes. Often when out and about Bane carried morsels of food in his pockets and handed them out to those brave enough to allow his masked form close.

            Bane had been beyond the slums many times during his three months in Shanghai. Both necessity and curiosity had taken him into the heart of the city where he marveled at the tall buildings and their architecture and the flashing, multi-colored lights. Because of the notoriety his mask could garner, he moved about mainly at night to be less conspicuous.

            “You have a memorable…face,” Chase had said when they had first arrived. “Best not to have it seen by too many.”

            Their surveillance and protection of Bruce Wayne did not allow much leisure time, but Bane took advantage of the hours he had to explore the city and learn about it and its people. The stark contrast between rich and poor was a familiar theme when he considered the many cities that he had experienced since joining the League. And though he lacked the poverty of so many, he felt more akin to those in the slums than to those in the high-rises. Their lack of wealth—like his mask—would forever keep them on the fringe of society, many simply because of where they had been born, just like him.

            Bruce Wayne had come from the decadent high-rises of Gotham. Why had he chosen to instead mingle with the scum of criminality? Though not completely convinced of Rā’s al Ghūl’s beliefs about Wayne’s motivations, Bane had to admit that the young man’s choices were intriguing. Yet such intrigue did not lend to admiration or respect. Since his first sight of the billionaire—a photograph shown to him by Rā’s—he hated Wayne and everything he stood for, the greed and excess of Gotham’s high society. How could Rā’s truly believe that a man born and raised in such immoral wealth could ever understand the lofty ideals of the League of Shadows? Perhaps Rā’s’ designs on his daughter’s future with Wayne had constricted his vision only to that which he had conceived. Bane hoped to one day prove this to Rā’s. Or perhaps Bruce Wayne himself would convince him.

            Several times over these months, he and Chase had been close to Wayne, concealed yet watchful, weapons in hand, whenever the crew of criminals to which Wayne and Temujin belonged committed a heist. Sometimes Bane had even leveled the sights of his rifle squarely on Wayne himself, imagined pulling the trigger and freeing Talia’s future. But even if he had been reckless enough to disobey orders, he knew Damien Chase was watching him closely for just such a lapse in judgment.

            Necessarily he and Chase had spent many hours together since coming to Shanghai. Over the past four years, they had gone on missions together but never just the two of them. Bane was accustomed to being in command of operations in which he took part, so now he chafed in this subordinate role. The longer they were here, the more the situation vexed him.

            On his twenty minute walk, he felt the usual stares from those whom he passed. Not only did his mask make him stand out, but so did his European face—what could be seen of it—and his size; he towered over most everyone. Both he and Chase dressed in worn, tired clothing like others in the slum, but even that could do little to disguise Bane’s glaring diversity. Though he knew Chase’s warning had merit, sometimes he found himself going out of his way to be seen by others. He had been locked away for twenty-five of his thirty-one years; he would be damned if he was going to allow himself to be marginalized now when he was a free man.

            He passed a building with no windows, a two-story affair with pictures of beautiful young women on the outside. Long hair, stunning eyes all seemingly looking right at him, inviting, promising. Bane turned the collar of his jacket up, his shoulders hunched against the chill of the damp evening. A swell of desire caused him to growl and curse himself for coming this way. His steps quickened.

            Chase had attempted to convince Bane to accompany him on a couple of his forays into such establishments, but Bane had refrained.

            “Trust me, brother,” Chase had laughed, “they’ve seen things far more bizarre than your mask. As long as you’re paying, you could look like Akar and still get laid.”

            Of course the cruel remark about Akar irritated Bane, and his defensive response nearly started an argument. And so after that, Chase had always left him behind in their shared room. Bane was glad to have the small space to himself for a while, even if it meant being hounded by thoughts of what he was missing. He would then remember Talia’s disappointment with Patrice, how the aftermath of the break-up made her bitterly regret ever sleeping with the boy.

            “Promise me,” she had said to Bane back in August, “promise me that you won’t make the same mistake I made. You must wait until you are certain.”

            “Certain of what?”

            “That the person you are with truly loves you. And that you love her.”

            He had smiled at her earnestness. “And how does one acquire this certainty?”

            Talia frowned and shrugged one shoulder. “I just think you will know. You have that gift.”

            “Gift?”

            “Yes. You are able to understand someone instantly. You know their motivations. You’re one of the wisest people I know, Bane.”

            He had scoffed at her words and tried to change the subject, but she had persisted.

            “Promise me, _habibi_.”

            “Talia, we’ve talked about this before; men in the League cannot marry—”

            “I didn’t say anything about marriage, just love. No one’s said you can’t love anyone.”

            “Now you are splitting hairs, little mouse.”

            “Just promise me. I don’t want to see you hurt like I was.”

            To humor her and dismiss the matter, he had playfully agreed to save himself for the sake of love.

            “I wish you could find someone like Mama,” she had added. “Someone who appreciates you like she did.”

            Her words came back to him now as he turned off the main thoroughfare into an even narrower lane, little more than an alley. It was relatively quiet here with no one outside and windows closed against the chilly night. Light from within the bordering two-story buildings illuminated his way, shining on parked scooters and bikes, touching upon the brown remains of a narrow garden at the base of one tenement. Voices muffled only by thin walls reached his ears, some laughter, a few harsh words, children who refused to go to bed no doubt. It was at such times that he missed Talia the most—coming back here in the evenings and hearing the conversations of others who dwelt in the same building where he slept, their words distorted by walls and doors, but sounds that revealed the lives being lived around him, shared lives, while he settled onto his shabby, ridiculously undersized bed either alone in the room or only with Chase as company. Even after three months of living virtually side by side twenty-four seven, the two men shared little more than what their mission required.

            Feeling particularly isolated tonight, Bane retired to bed after resupplying the canisters on his mask; this latest design allowed him to sleep six hours before the pain worked its way into his slumber, and he had to again reach for the container of crystals. He tried to read a Shanghai newspaper but found that he could not concentrate. Sighing in irritation, he tossed it aside and pulled Melisande’s blanket over him. When he reached to turn off the small, bare-bulb lamp beside his bed, he hesitated. Loneliness prodded him to reach for his pack shoved beneath his bed. Dipping his hand inside a rear zipper compartment, he hesitated and listened for Chase’s tread upon the creaky stairs leading to their upper floor room. Nothing. Five minutes, he told himself. That is all he would allow.

            From the pack he withdrew a small picture of Talia. A classmate had taken it last spring outside the building where she lived. She had put a sprig of lacy white flowers in her hair, pushing the strands behind her delicate ears, her tiny diamond earrings shining in the sun. It was a close-up, her eyes reflecting her beautiful smile, her mother’s smile, her cheeks bunched up around her pronounced cheekbones, pink in the breeze off Lake Geneva. What he loved most about the photo was that Talia looked straight into the camera, thus giving him the sensation that she were looking right at him. He had known, even without her telling him, that she had been thinking of him at that moment. Even now, in his melancholy state, the picture made him smile. It touched him deeply to know that after two years apart, with Talia experiencing a whole new world, she had not forgotten him, that nothing and no one had broken the unique bond that had been forged in the pit.

            Bane knew he should slip the photo back into his pack; indeed, he was not supposed to have it at all, but he indulged himself a moment longer, even as his eyelids threatened to close. He wanted her to be the last thing he saw before he slipped away. He wanted to dream of her and Melisande; he wanted them to take away the pain. Five minutes more…

            The flick of a cigarette lighter snapped Bane awake. His eyes opened upon his empty hands atop Melisande’s blanket. Across the room, Chase sat upon his bed, holding the flame of a lighter against a small square of paper. Talia’s picture!


	32. Chapter 32

            “No!” Bane cried.

            He scrambled out of bed to rescue Talia’s picture, but the menacing barrel of Chase’s pistol abruptly halted him.

            “Now, now,” Chase coldly mocked, unblinking, as the flames ate away at the photograph in his other hand.

            “What the hell are you doing?”

            “What’s necessary.”

            “You’re going to shoot me over a picture?”

            “Maybe I should since you shouldn’t have brought it here to begin with.”

            Bane’s fingers twitched as the encroaching flames caused Chase to drop the vanishing photo. He wanted to snatch at what remained but knew it was too late, just as he knew Chase had a maddeningly valid point.

            “You know the regulations, damn it,” Chase continued. “No personal items, especially something like that, something that could potentially put her in danger. What the hell’s the matter with you?”

            A part of Bane wanted to tear Chase apart for destroying the photo, but his sense of accountability would not allow such a lapse. He watched as the flames ran out of fuel and died, leaving behind only charred remains which Chase’s boot then smeared to ash. He scowled at Bane and set aside his pistol.

            “Is that everything you have?” Chase asked.

            Bane returned the scowl and turned back to his bed, hiding his pain over the loss of the photo.

            “I’ll have to report this,” Chase said.

            “Do what you have to do,” Bane snarled as he crawled back under Melisande’s blanket.

            “How long are you going to carry this torch, Bane? It’s ridiculous. Talia doesn’t need you anymore, you know.”

            “What’s it to you?”

            “Your worry for her takes your focus off your work. I’m just saying you don’t need to worry about her. That’s for her father to do. She doesn’t belong to you.”

            Thinking of Rā’s’ similar words, Bane rolled onto his side, his back toward Chase. “Well, I belong to her.”

            “You belong to the League.”

            “You don’t understand; you don’t care for her the way I do, so you can’t understand.”

            “Maybe I understand better than you think. Maybe I care for her more than you know.”

            Bane nearly rolled back over to see Chase’s face, to read what was in his eyes, but he forced himself to remain staring at the wall.

            “Maybe,” Chase continued, “fate will prove Bruce Wayne unworthy of her. Then, in time, she will find someone else, someone her father also approves of.”

            Now Bane turned over and propped himself on his elbow, incredulous. “If you are implying—”

            “You know I am like a son to him.”

            “You’re twenty years older than she is.”

            “She’s far too intelligent to marry someone her own age. And anyone outside the League will never understand her. You’ll see.”

            “Aren’t you forgetting something?” Bane sarcastically asked. “We aren’t allowed to marry.”

            “I believe Rā’s would make an exception…for me.”

            Bane sat up, scowling. “You self-serving bastard. The only reason you’d marry her is to ingratiate yourself with her father.”

            Chase laughed harshly. “Spare me your holier-than-thou attitude, brother; there’s nothing that means more to you than Rā’s’ approval. But when are you going to realize that the very sight of you turns his blood cold?”

            All warmth left Bane’s body. He uttered a growl and unwittingly drew Melisande’s blanket closer around him.

            “That’s right,” Chase continued. “Seeing you and that blanket only serves to remind him of the hell he left his wife to die in. Surely you see it in his eyes every time he looks at you. I do; so does Talia. Or maybe you just choose not to see it.”

            “You son of a bitch—” Bane got to his feet, fists clenched.

            Footsteps coming up the stairs thwarted Bane’s advance. A familiar tread…

            A quiet knock upon the door, then Temujin’s soft voice: “It’s me.”

            Chase went to unlock the door, pistol in hand. Temujin slipped inside, and Chase locked the door behind him. The sight of his friend defused Bane’s anger, for Temujin had not been in contact in over a week, though their daily surveillance ensured that the Mongol was still alive. He had not realized just how much he missed his mentor until now, and he stepped forward to welcome him with a brief embrace.

            Temujin grinned at him and rubbed his cold hands together. “I hope there’s enough coffee in that pot for me.” After pouring himself a cup, he looked at them critically, “Well, I’d say it’s chillier in here than outside.” He moved to sit on Bane’s bed since there were no chairs in the room. When neither of his companions responded to his remark, Temujin continued, “It wouldn’t surprise me if I came back here one day to find that you had killed each other.” His grin attempted to ease the tension but failed. He blew cautiously on the coffee.

            Chase returned to sit on his bed, the pistol close beside him. “Bane and I were just having a discussion about regulations…and how often he breaks them.”

            Bane stood near the stove, glowering at Chase, too agitated to sit back down.

            Temujin raised a questioning eyebrow at Bane, grunted when he realized Bane would not take Chase’s bait. Their squabbles often amused the Mongol, at least until they nearly came to blows, then he would step in to cool things down.

            “I think,” Temujin began, “I should tell Rā’s to end this op before his two best operatives implode from breathing the same air too long.”

            Scowling, Chase said, “Did you come back here with a purpose, Genghis, or just to drink my coffee?”

            Unaffected, Temujin grinned again before sipping the brew. Then he leaned back on his elbows. “We’ve got a job in a couple of days. One of the crew has an in with a truck driver transporting a shipment of high-tech equipment. There’s a buyer already lined up. We’ll drive it right to his warehouse.”

            “Do you have the location?” Chase asked.

            “Yes. I’ll draw it up on the map, but first…” he took another sip of the coffee then set the cup aside before lying back on Bane’s bed with a sigh, “let me enjoy a moment on a real bed.” He closed his eyes.

            “You can’t stay here,” Chase rumbled.

            “As if I need you to tell me that.”

            Chase’s bearded face reddened in anger, but he held his tongue.

            After a brief moment of silence, Temujin spoke again, “I am growing more and more concerned about our mutual friend.”

            “What do you mean?” Bane asked.

            Temujin frowned. “I fear he is becoming too accustomed to this life. It is consuming him.”

            “What are you suggesting?” Bane prompted.

            “I’m not sure I’m suggesting anything. Rā’s made it plain that we are not to extract our friend without it being his will. Yet on the other hand I fear that if left to his own devices, he will ultimately be lost. His time here goes beyond one simply trying to understand criminality.”

            Chase rubbed his closely cropped beard in thought, the anger of a moment ago already replaced with deep concentration.

            “Is there any way the two of you could break away from the others?” Bane asked. “Convince him that you should work alone?”

            “No,” Chase said. “That could make him suspicious. Genghis says our friend trusts him. We can’t damage that.”

            “Trust,” Temujin snorted. “I’m not so sure our friend and I can trust the others in our group equally; one in particular, Xuan. I have a sneaking suspicion that he is up to no good. He is becoming greedy and more secretive.”

            “Are you the only one who feels that way?” Chase said.

            “I have not asked the others for fear that they would mention it to Xuan, but if I were to guess, I would say they are uneasy as well. There has been some tension lately among the group.” He opened his eyes and sat up, already looking refreshed as he retrieved the coffee cup. “Seems like there is tension everywhere.” Temujin’s glance sliced meaningfully at Bane, a subtle warning.

            “Now’s not the time to change anything,” Chase cautioned. “Do this next job, then we’ll reassess the situation before I speak with Rā’s.”

            “Very well,” Temujin agreed, wrapping both hands around the coffee cup for warmth. “I will finish this and be on my way.”

            “Do you have enough to eat?” Bane asked. “If you need to, take from whatever we have.”

            “I am fine, my friend.”

            With his coffee drank, Temujin turned to a map of the city pinned to the wall above Bane’s bed. He showed them where the truck would be commandeered and the location of the warehouse to which it would be driven.

            “We’ll reconnoiter in the morning to identify vantage points,” Bane said.

            “We can’t be at two locations at once,” Chase said. “Bane, you will take the first location, and I will be near the warehouse.”

            “I can follow the truck,” Bane insisted.

            “No,” Chase said. “They would notice a tail.” He gave Bane a superior look. “I’ll be near the warehouse. I’m quite capable of protecting our mutual friend without your help.”

            “And who will protect Jin?”

            Before Chase could snap a response, Temujin held up a hand. “I will be fine. Lest you forget,” he patted the pistol in his coat pocket, “I have a friend of my own near at hand.”

            “I won’t follow the truck directly,” Bane insisted. “I will come at the warehouse by a less direct route.”

            Chase considered him for a brief moment, and Bane saw something in the American’s eyes that he did not like. “Very well,” Chase consented.

            When it came time for Temujin to leave, Bane accompanied him to the alley. A slight drizzle had begun, so they remained in the shadows as close to the building’s protection as they could, collars turned up, hands in their pockets. Nearby, the pair of battered motorcycles that Bane and Chase used sat rusting.

            “Will it be all right?” Bane quietly asked.

            “What?”

            “The heist.”

            “Of course. You worry too much, my friend.”

            “I have reason to worry, especially after what you said.”

            “Well then, perhaps I should not have said it.”

            “No; it’s important for us to know everything so we can be prepared.”

            “And I have no doubt you will be prepared. That is why I am not concerned.” Temujin stood close for warmth. “If I am concerned about anything, it is about you and our fearless leader. Each time I see you two, it is worse, the animosity between you. It can cloud your judgment, your instincts. We have to all work together to make this successful.” He forced a grin and patted Bane’s arm once. “After all, you want to impress the boss, don’t you?”

            Temujin’s attempt at levity could not penetrate Bane’s gloom nor stop him from complaining, “Bastard burned Talia’s picture.”

            “Picture?” The dim glow of an overhead light captured the Mongol’s surprise and displeasure, making Bane instantly regret his revelation. “And what were you doing with such a thing?”

            “Don’t lecture me, Jin. I’ve already gotten an earful.”

            “I must say I side with Chase on this one.” When Bane did not respond, Temujin’s expression softened. “But with that being said, I am sorry—for your sake—that the picture was destroyed. However, she has sent you many, and I am sure there will be more to follow.” The Mongol eyed him sidelong. “I’m assuming you didn’t bring more than one with you.”

            “No, of course not.”

            Temujin coughed and muttered, “Of course not, he says.”

            Bane stared at the building across from them. “It’s nearly Christmas, Jin. Talia’s back home by now. We will miss her, stuck here…and for what?”

            “You know for what.”

            Bane grumbled his displeasure then added, “Chase seems to think he will be next in line to marry Talia, should Wayne prove unattainable.”

            Temujin laughed. “He told you that?”

            “Yes.”

            Temujin laughed again.

            “I don’t think it’s that funny,” Bane griped.

            “Chase is too used to commanding men; he’s forgotten that women aren’t as pliable. But no doubt his ego impedes his common sense.”

            Bane grunted, watched the misty rain slowly course down the gas tank of his motorcycle.

            “Well, I must be on my way. Take care of yourself, my friend.” Temujin wagged a finger. “And try not to ruffle each other’s feathers too much, yes?”

            Reluctantly Bane nodded.

            “Maybe soon this will all be over, and we will be sitting in front of the fire with our girl, listening to Passat’s violin and enjoying some of Jamyang’s spiced wine.” He sighed. “How I long for it.”

            “Be careful, Jin.”

            “I am the soul of caution.”

            Bane scoffed at this untruth yet allowed an affectionate smile to reach his eyes as he briefly embraced Temujin. The Mongol gave him an impish grin before shoving his hands deep into his pockets and shambling away into the weeping night.


	33. Chapter 33

            Bane cursed and gave his motorcycle a swift kick which nearly sent it over onto its side.

            “We’ll both have to use mine,” Chase said, scowling at Bane’s unresponsive Yamaha. “I’ll drop you off at your location then pick you up afterwards.”

            “I should be there at the warehouse.”

            “I told you before, it won’t be necessary. Genghis said it’s a straightforward operation.”

            Bane scowled. “I don’t like it.”

            “Of course you don’t; what else is new? You forget that it was Genghis who trained you, not the other way around. He’ll be fine. Now grab your pack and get on; time’s wasting.”

            The journey to Shanghai port through the traffic of a busy Monday took nearly forty minutes. Chase expertly wove his way in and out of the congestion of cars, buses, bicycles, scooters, and other motorcycles, but the combined weight of two large men and their packs greatly hampered speed, the Yamaha often sputtering or coughing whenever Chase had to accelerate or decelerate. Bane, his face covered by the dark shield of his helmet—modified to accommodate the mask—constantly checked his watch. They would be cutting it close.

            When they reached their destination near the dockyards, Chase barely slowed enough for Bane to jump off, then he was gone, the motorcycle much more responsive without Bane’s two hundred pounds. Bane kept his helmet on as he pushed his way through pedestrians and bike traffic, moving briskly for a block until he ducked into an older building. There were only a couple of shipping offices here, and the employees that Bane passed on his way to the stairs paid him no heed.

            Climbing to the roof, he removed his helmet and donned sunglasses to combat the late morning glare; the sunglasses—also modified—had a strap around his head to hold them in place since the mask covered his ears. The pronounced smells of the East China Sea wafted over him, the air fresher here than in the slums, making it easier for him to breathe. Sea birds wheeled and called overhead, but he paid them no heed as he circled the rooftop to ensure he was indeed alone. The four-story vantage point gave him a view of the nearby deep-water port where several prodigious container ships were being loaded and unloaded. Such vessels had always fascinated Bane—their engineering and ability to brave the open seas while heavy-laden with mountains of stacked, multi-colored containers, carrying the world’s commerce. Shanghai’s international airport was not far away either, the airliners’ roar adding to the noise of the port and the sprawling city. But Bane tuned it all out and set to work assembling his rifle.

            His position gave him a direct line of sight to a loading dock across the busy street. Bane checked his watch again. Any time now. He studied the traffic below, searching for the plain vehicle that Temujin had described to him. Nothing yet. Good. No chance then that Bruce Wayne could have noticed his entrance into the building.

            He tapped his earpiece beneath his mask. “I’m in position,” he reported to Chase.

            “Copy.”

            “No sign yet of our mutual friend.”

            As he waited, he lamented his lack of transportation. Though only five miles separated his location from the warehouse destination, they were five choked, chaotic miles, and he would require his motorcycle if he needed to traverse them with any speed. He should have been assigned to the second location, he lamented again, for it was there that Temujin would be, but such a decision had belonged to the team leader, and Chase had wanted Bane’s eyes on Bruce Wayne.

            A battered silver Toyota caught Bane’s attention as it edged its way up the street. Two men inside. Bane peered down the length of his scope, first taking in the driver then the passenger—Bruce Wayne.

            “Our mutual friend has arrived.”

            The com crackled in his ear before Chase responded, “Who is with him?”

            “Xuan. That’s all.”

            “Very good. Just as Genghis said.” A pause. “I’m in position now.”

            The Toyota pulled to the side of the street, across from the loading dock. Within ten minutes, a truck arrived, and men from the warehouse began to load it with large wooden crates. Bane trained his scope on the boxes, read the side: _Wayne Enterprises_ beneath the large W logo. He smirked at the _Made in China_ stamp. Of course Wayne Enterprises would utilize the cheap labor of China to make their products; all the better for their bottom line.

            His scope swung back to the car, to Wayne. The young man’s brown eyes closely watched the loading process. Bane wondered if he considered the irony of stealing from his own company. Surely Wayne did not consider himself a Robin Hood. What would he do with the money such a heist would land him, and what had he done with all that had come before? Bane figured by now Wayne, like the criminals with whom he associated, found as much thrill in the theft itself as in the reward. Like Temujin had said, Wayne was on the verge of truly losing himself in this world…if he had not already done so. Bane hoped that he had, for only then would Rā’s al Ghūl realize that Bruce Wayne could never be worthy of his daughter.

            The truck was nearly loaded. It was then that Xuan and Wayne left the car. They moved without hesitation across the street. Bane’s finger hovered near the trigger of his weapon, ready should the driver prove false. Xuan approached the man who stood smoking in front of the truck. The two exchanged no words, only a look, then Xuan palmed cash to him, and the driver walked away into the flow of people along the street. Xuan hopped into the truck's cab as Wayne joined a third member of his crew who had been posing as a loading dock worker. Together they hoisted the last of the crates then jumped into the back. Xuan revved the idling engine then pulled into the street.

            “They’re on their way,” Bane reported, keeping his eyes on the loading dock to ensure that no one had become suspicious.

            “Copy.”

            Once the truck had vanished down the street, Bane quickly dissembled his rifle, ears attuned to his com. Shouldering his pack, he stood for a moment, looking out to sea, watching the shipping as vessels came and went, their slow-moving hulks intermingled with dilapidated fishing junks, sparkling yachts, and sailboats. Sunlight danced upon the water, blinding against Bane’s glasses. He looked away and headed for the stairs.

            Pent-up energy propelled him into the street, and he began walking in the direction that the truck had taken. He paid no heed to those who stared or shied away from his mask. All the while he was attuned to his earpiece, waiting for word from Chase. It came by the time he had gone a mile.

            “I have a visual on the truck.”

            “Can you see Jin?”

            “Yes, he’s outside the warehouse on point.”

            Bane’s steps quickened, and he again cursed the absence of his motorcycle.

            “The truck’s pulling inside the building.”

            Bane pressed his hand against the side of the mask covering his ear in the hopes of better hearing the com through the street noise. In frustration, he shoved aside anyone who got in his path.

            Sudden, distant pops crackled in his earpiece, slammed him to a halt.

            “Chase! What the hell’s happening? Was that gunfire?”

            Static.

            Bane’s heart began to race. “Chase, God damn it…!”

            Passersby flicked wary glances his way, offering as wide a berth as they could.

            “Chase!”

            Waiting no longer, Bane began to run, crashing through the foot traffic to get into the busy street. His attention flashed at cars; no, he needed something more mobile, something that could wind its way through the bustle. Bikes or scooters—too slow. Then he spied a young man, a courier perhaps, near the curb, just having come from a building with a package under one arm. He mounted a motorcycle.

            Reaching inside his jacket for his pistol, Bane stepped beside him just as the engine came to life. He pressed the barrel of the Glock against the back of the man’s ear. Terror blanched the courier’s face; whether from Bane’s close mask or the gun, Bane did not know or care.

            “Get off,” he snarled.

            Fear froze the young man, so Bane gave him a shove. Only when the courier fell did passersby notice something amiss, but no one moved to stop Bane; they only pointed in alarm or stared in disbelief over what they saw. By then, Bane had mounted the motorcycle and gunned the engine.

            “Chase!” he shouted. “Do you read me? Come in, God damn it!”

            He could barely hear Chase’s response over the noise of the motorcycle and the blare of horns as he ducked and wove his way through traffic at a dangerous speed.

            “Someone gave them up.”

            “What?”

            “Cops.” Static again.

            “I’m on my way.”

            “Don’t come here.” More static. “Too late… Nothing we can do. Meet me back at base. Do you read? Rendezvous back at base.”

            Bane swerved at the last minute to avoid a truck at an intersection.

            “Bane, do you copy? Return to base. That is a direct order.”

            Desperation tore at Bane. He ignored the voice in his ear, pushed the motorcycle even faster. Time seemed to stand still, and he feared he would never reach the warehouse.

            “I can see you, Bane,” Chase yelled in his ear as he finally neared the warehouse. “What the hell are you doing? I gave you an order…”

            Bane gave the com a hard rap to disable it.

            Police cars. Three of them parked outside the warehouse doors. A dark van. Most of the activity, however, seemed to be inside. A few curious spectators watched from the fringes while most of the nearby traffic continued on its way, unabated.

            Then Bane saw him. Crumpled in the mud, not far from the warehouse doors. Two men from the dark van bent over him, carelessly picked him up as if he were nothing more than a sack of grain. His dark head lolled to the side, eyes closed.

            Bane slammed the motorcycle to a halt. In one move, he dismounted, marched toward the two men who carried the body toward the rear doors of the van. No one paid him any heed, too busy with their duties. Bane did not draw his handgun until he reached the van doors. One of the men looked up just as he started to hoist his charge inside. The sight of Bane’s mask froze him. Bane discreetly shoved the gun barrel into the back of the second man.

            “Make a sound and you’re both dead,” Bane growled low. “Now put him down and get in.”

            A policeman strode out of the building, and Bane angled his face away. The man, however, was too intent on his own task, striding quickly toward a squad car, paying no heed to those responsible for one criminal’s remains.

            “In,” Bane ordered, half lifting the nearest man with one hand.

            He slammed the van doors shut behind them and shoved his Glock back into his jacket. Then he swiftly gathered Temujin in his arms and strode for the motorcycle.

            Some of the pedestrians hesitated in their steps when they saw Bane drape his bloody, mud-stained friend across him on the motorcycle; others hurried to get as far away as possible, sensing danger. Bane fired up the engine just as a shout came from near the van. A policeman cried out an order for him to stop, but Bane only glanced his way once, saw the raised pistol, ignored it, knew the man would not shoot with so many civilians around. He was more confident of that than the belief that Chase—still somewhere nearby—would come to his aid if needed. Bane opened the throttle and sped away.

#

            Bane did not know how he had arrived back at the tenement. He was too numb to be aware of anything except the cold body lying across his legs. The lane was mostly deserted as he parked in the side alley, his neighbors gone to their meager jobs or inside out of the day’s crisp chill; the sun could not reach down here among the smog and tightly packed buildings.

            He carried Temujin’s body up the stairs and into the apartment, laid him carefully upon his own bed. Outside, he heard the familiar sputter of Chase’s motorcycle. Bane stared down at Temujin’s pale face, his skin looking waxy and artificial, the wounds in his chest equally surreal, the blood black upon his soiled, torn and tattered clothes. With his sleeve, Bane gently wiped away the mud smeared upon his mentor’s cheeks. Then he waited, waited for the Mongol’s eyes to open, willed it so.

            Heavy footsteps charged up the stairs, shook him back to reality. The door flew inward with Chase’s rush. Instantly Bane was upon him, driving him back against the doorframe, hands around his neck. His entire weight pressed against the American to prevent him from accessing the knife or the pistol that Bane knew were on his person.

            “What the hell happened?” Bane demanded in Chase’s flushed face, rage suddenly pouring through him like water through a ruptured dam.

            Infuriated by being manhandled, yet able to maintain a level of calmness that only served to further fuel Bane’s passions, Chase growled, “Get your hands off me.”

            “Why didn’t you help him? Why didn’t you stop them?”

            “I said get your hands off.”

            “Tell me!” Bane’s grip tightened around his neck.

            “Let go of me, you God damn freak.”

            “What did you do? You let this happen—”

            “I was doing my duty, as I always do. As you should have done.”

            “Letting Jin die?”

            “Our duty is to the mission, to our objective.”

            “What does Jin’s death have to do with that? He was protecting Wayne, and we were protecting him.”

            “No; we were all protecting Wayne. And that’s why this had to happen. You heard what Genghis told us two days ago. Wayne is losing himself in this. If we simply let him go on, he could be lost altogether. We were sent here to preserve him for the League. And that’s what we’re doing. That’s what Genghis died for.”

            “What the hell are you talking about?”

            “Prison is the last stop for Wayne, the bottom. No options left. He can’t slip away from us there. And that’s where Rā’s will find him. He will offer him a path; Wayne will be open to it by then, desperate. We have done all we can for him.”

            Bane stared at Chase. The oxygen in the room seemed to thin and dissipate, leaving him gasping through the mask. Fresh anger swelled in him, bulged his eyes. “You mean to tell me you set this up? You knew the police would be there, and you didn’t warn Jin?”

            “It could have compromised—”

            “It could have saved him!” Bane nearly lifted Chase off his feet.

            Chase began to choke. His hands clawed for a grip on Bane’s collar in an effort to pry him off.

            “You killed him!”

            Chase tried to shake his head. “They shot him. If I had returned fire, it would have put Wayne in danger.”

            “I don’t care about Wayne.”

            “Damn you, Bane, let…go…” Chase gagged, furiously trying to push away from the wall, to shift Bane’s balance, but Bane remained solid, unmoving. Chase’s frantic fingers crabbed over the front of the mask, yanked fruitlessly at it. He reached around to scrabble for the fastener at the back while his other hand sought to gouge Bane’s eyes. But with one final surge of power Bane crushed the life out of Chase. He watched the light drain from the American’s surprised eyes, felt the sag of his body, stepped back from the wall and let him crumple into a heap. Bane looked at him only for as long as it took to drag him farther into the room so the door could close.

            He turned back to his bed, stood over Temujin once again, stared at the wounds. Grief slowly welled up in him, awakened from deep inside where the memories of his mother’s death and Melisande’s murder still dwelled, pushing aside the rage, dousing it like a flame. The numbing sensation spread upward into his shoulders, rounding them, then downward into his legs, stealing the strength from his knees. He sank to the floor, his right arm catching upon the mattress for support. His whole body began to tremble, his lungs to ache. His chest tightened, threatening to strangle his heart and steal his breath.

            “I’m sorry, Jin. I’m so sorry…”

            His fingers gently closed around Temujin’s hand where it lay upon Melisande’s blanket. Tears clouded his vision. Then, unable to bear the cold lifelessness of his friend, he instead gripped the near edge of the blanket. And as sobs suddenly wracked his body, he buried his face in its folds to muffle his sorrow.


	34. Chapter 34

            The monastery’s Great Hall was silent, empty. Bane stood on the threshold between the anteroom and the Hall, the cold from outside still lingering upon him like a cloak even though the heavy outer doors behind him were closed. The welcomed dimness worked like a shot of adrenaline, awakening his senses, snapping him from his emotionless haze. How had he gotten here? He barely remembered the extraction from Shanghai, and his journey through the mountains was nothing but a vague thought. Days had blurred. Movements unknown. All swallowed by overpowering grief and guilt.

            The quiet Hall beckoned to him with its flickering candles, its peace. He shuffled inside, only now aware of the weight of his pack and the intensity of his exhaustion. He stared across the room to the spot where he had meditated before his initiation. Easily he remembered Temujin standing before him, proud and confident. The little Mongol had always had faith in him, more so than any other man. Bane wanted to believe that he could now walk up to his friend’s room in the dormitory and find him there, sitting near the window with a book in hand and that particular half-grin that he revealed only to him and Talia.

            But Bane’s sense of duty prodded him from the Great Hall. He would be expected to report to Rā’s al Ghūl in Chase’s stead upon his arrival, and Rā’s was surely there, home for the holidays to be with his daughter.

            Talia. How he had longed to see her all those months in Shanghai. But now, knowing the news that he had to deliver, he dreaded the reunion. By failing Temujin, he had failed her as well, robbed her of someone she had loved nearly as much as her father, just as he had failed to preserve her mother. And though he felt no remorse for killing Damien Chase, he knew that Talia had considered the American her friend. Would she despise him for what he had done to Chase? Of course he could deceive her—and Rā’s—by concealing the truth of Chase’s death, could instead say it had happened in the line of duty. But Bane could not embrace such a cowardly tactic.

            With the numbness and shock wearing off, his mind was now open to the cold realization of what lay before him. This was not simply the end to another mission, where he would make his report, rest, and await his next assignment. No, he had crossed multiple lines, any one of which would lead to severe censure or worse. But, if not for what those repercussions might mean to Talia, he regretted nothing that he had done and would willingly accept whatever punishment was to come.

            He made his way through the monastery with dogged, unwavering steps, ignoring those whom he saw or those who called out to welcome him back. For the first time he wondered of his comrades’ reactions once they learned of their brothers’ deaths. No overt display of sorrow, of course; they were all too hardened for that, too aware of the risks they all took, and the very real possibility that one day it might be one of them who did not return. However, Bane wanted them to grieve for Temujin, wanted them to acknowledge his humanity, his skills, his dedication, and his sacrifice. Many, like Chase, had doubted the Mongol’s commitment when he had returned to the monastery with Bane after their rescue from prison. But in short order all had not only grown to respect him but to favor him among their ranks, especially whenever they were at leisure. Temujin’s quick wit and indomitable good humor could lighten even the deepest winter night in the common room.

            Bane reached the common room now and came to an abrupt halt in the open doorway. A lump instantly formed in his throat as his gaze fell upon Talia. She did not see him right away, for he was in the shadow of the mezzanine. He remained perfectly still so he could drink in the relaxed sight of her. She and Akar were alone in the large room. They sat on woven mats in front of the blazing afternoon fire, playing backgammon upon the familiar short-legged table where he often played chess with Akar. To one side of the hearth arose a tall Christmas tree, decorated from top to bottom with all manner of festive ornaments, garland, and tapers, no doubt the product of Talia’s handiwork, with Akar’s help. Each year, her father took her down into the valleys so she could select the perfect tree; Bane, Akar, Temujin, and Chase—if he was at the monastery—would happily accompany them. The excursions were always lighthearted and enjoyed by all, usually ending in a snowball fight precipitated by Talia.

            She and Akar were trading good-natured barbs over their backgammon game, hot beverages near at hand. Talia’s smile and laughter came easily, giving Bane hope that she had finally weathered her break-up with the damnable French boy. How mature she looked, even without the light application of make-up that she wore while at school. Her long hair fell loosely about her shoulders, tendrils pushed back behind her ears so as not to hamper her view of the game or get in the way when she drank from her mug. There was grace in even her smallest movement and a bright liveliness to her easy smile. Her laugh was like music to him, sweeter and more melodic than even Passat’s violin.

            Akar was the first to notice him, and a broad smile tugged at the scars on his face as he cried out in surprise, “Bane!”

            Talia was instantly on her feet, flying into his arms, her face alight with joy, his name echoing from her lips. Bane wrapped her in his embrace, wished the cursed mask did not rob him of the ability to feel her soft hair against his cheek.

            “Where have you been, _habibi_? Papa said you were extracted days ago.” She leaned back in his arms, and when she looked into his eyes, her smile died. She put her hands on either side of his mask, never afraid to touch it, holding his focus upon her, not allowing him to escape her anxious scrutiny. “What is it?”

            He tried; he opened his mouth to tell her about Temujin, but his strength left him, and he had to look away from her deep blue gaze. He let go of her. “I must speak with your father. Do you know where he is?”

            “He just went up to his room,” Akar said, standing behind Talia now. “I’ll go get him, if you’d like.”

            “No, Akar. Thank you. I’ll report to him myself.”

            Bane tried to turn away toward the stairs, but Talia would not let go of his arms.

            “Bane? What is it?”

            He continued to avoid her eyes. “I will come find you after I see your father.” Gently he pulled away, but she followed him to the stairs.

            “Bane…let Chase report to Papa. Come sit by the fire with us and have something warm to drink. You look so cold.”

            He forced himself to glance back at her, did his best to lighten his tone. “I must speak with your father. I’ll see you after.” Then he started up the stairs. He half expected her to pursue him, for he could feel her growing concern over his evasiveness. Perhaps her dread of the possible answer to her question kept her from pressing him further.

            Bane ponderously climbed the stairs, hoped Rā’s did not leave his room after possibly hearing when Talia and Akar had called out his name. Bane wanted a moment alone first, to set his pack down and replenish the mask’s crystals, to close his eyes and relax, regenerate, clear his mind, prepare himself.

            His room was cold and lonely, and for some reason it momentarily reminded him of his prison cell the day after his mother had died. He shivered at the memory, setting down his pack near the foot of the bed. In the dim light that struggled through the single window, he saw a wrapped present on his bed. Propped in front of it was a large note in Talia’s hand that read: _Welcome home!_ The lump returned to Bane’s throat, and he sat upon the bed, took the note in hand. He stared for a moment at the cold hearth but could not get back up to light a fire to chase away the chill. No flame could banish the cold that had gripped him since Temujin’s death. His very blood seemed iced over.

            Tentative, he set the note aside and took the gift in hand, admired the handsome red velvet bow that Talia had affixed. She loved Christmas, especially because it meant she could return to her family. He knew her fervor over the holiday was partly due to being deprived of so many Christmases when she had been in prison. Sitting together under their blankets in their cell every Christmas Eve, Talia would tell him all the things she wished for, both for herself and for him. Bane had done what he could to enliven the occasions—bartered with other prisoners for more charcoal for their fire, scrounged for scraps of paper that Talia could make into simple ornaments that he then hung from their ceiling, using some of it to wrap his gifts for her: toys carved from bone or wood, crocheted items, stolen fruit, new shoes cobbled together from leather remnants and worn cloth. She had loved everything he had provided, in turn giving him things like drawings that she had labored over, telling him not to try to see them as she crafted them there on the stone floor of their cell, near the door where the light was best.

            Since coming to the monastery, she had the means with which to give him many gifts during the holidays, which she always did. Of course her generosity was not showered only upon him; she did her best to have something for each man to open come Christmas. Temujin had always made a fuss over whatever she had given to him, causing her to blush and smile. He, in turn, like Bane, always had something for her as well, acquired on his travels far beyond the mountains. And she had loved and cherished every last thing. One of her favorite items, though, was still the ivory elephant that he had brought back from his village.

            The thought of the talisman and the one who had presented it to her brought a fresh, unheralded wave of grief. That, coupled with his physical exhaustion and the mask’s waning vapor, tore down his defenses. Setting aside the undeserved present, he covered his eyes with one hand and fought back tears. Not now, not here, he told himself. He needed to hold it together so he could make his report to Rā’s. He needed to master his emotions as Temujin had taught him, now and always.

            To distract himself, Bane went to the hearth and started a fire, then pulled off his parka and began to unpack his belongings. Melisande’s blanket was at the top of his pack, and he carefully spread it upon his bed then set Talia’s gift back near the pillow. He would not open it. Once she heard that he had killed Chase, she might desire to take it back, so it was best if he did not know what lay inside.

            He sat back down, closed his eyes, tried to clear his mind, to center himself, to breathe evenly. He could conquer the pain, he told himself, both physical and mental; he had done so before. He must. But the light sound of Talia climbing the last steps to the level of their rooms distracted him. He held his breath, waited.

            A tentative knock. “Bane? May I come in?” When he did not answer, she added, “Please let me in.”

            He glanced from the door to the gift near his pillow, could not find his voice, could not send her away nor invite her in.

            The door slid slowly open, but he did not turn; he simply stared at the growing fire. Yet he did not see the writhing flames; instead he saw Talia’s expression when he had first emerged from the prison shaft after his rescue—the fear and revulsion upon her face when she beheld an unrecognizable monster swathed in bloody bandages. Acutely he remembered the crushing agony caused by her reaction, indeed a pain greater than the physical torment he had already endured. He could not bear to see a similar reaction once she heard what he had done to Chase.

            Talia’s footsteps made no sound as she came around the bed to stand in front of him. Still he could neither speak nor look at her, hoping this would discourage her and drive her away.

            “Bane?”

            She reached for his hands. How he had missed her caress. Her warmth and softness overwhelmed him with its contrast with the last person he had touched—Temujin and his lifeless hand where it had lain upon Melisande’s blanket.

            “You’re so cold,” Talia said as she sat beside him. She pressed his large hands together in her lap, wrapping her fingers around them as much as she could, rubbing them to stir his circulation. Then, saying nothing about the unopened gift, she reached for her mother’s blanket and drew it around them, their bodies tight together, sitting as they used to sit upon their charpoy in prison, wrapped in their blankets.

            “Talia…” The words died in his throat, destroyed by her nearness, her concern, her affection.

            “What is it, _habibi_?” she asked near a whisper. “What happened?” When he did not reply, she touched the far side of his mask and gently compelled him to turn toward her. He stared at the blanket covering their hands. “Tell me what happened, Haris?” she whispered the Arabic name that Maysam—Melisande’s mother—had bestowed upon him. The name’s meaning—protector—caused him to crumble inside when he thought of how he had neglected to protect Temujin, just as he had been unable to protect Maysam’s daughter.

            _Don’t be such a coward_ , he berated himself. _Tell her_.

            “Jin,” he forced out the name as he commanded his gaze to meet hers. “Jin is dead, _habibati_.”

            Her breath caught in a small gasp, and her sapphire eyes grew even larger. Her hand dropped from his face to slip beneath the blanket, rejoining his, his chill now seeping into her as well.

            “I’m sorry, Talia. I wasn’t there to save him.” He stared down at the blanket. “I should have been.”

            Afraid of her silence, he lifted his eyes back to her. Tears rose up and spilled over her lower lashes, her lips trembling. He drew her into his arms, and she buried her face against his neck as she began to sob.

            “I’m sorry,” he whispered, stroking her hair. “I’m so sorry.”

            Having her there in his arms, someone who shared his grief, who understood, somehow brought him great comfort, and he felt strength ebbing back into him, as if derived from the closeness of their bodies. It made him realize that even though he was naturally endowed with great physical and mental capabilities, when he was with Talia, her symbiotic presence made him even more powerful; it sustained him.

            Softly Bane hushed her, rocking her back and forth as he had done beside her mother’s dead body. Though the mask’s analgesic was fading, bringing with it fresh pain of another kind, he held onto her until she voluntarily pushed slightly away, wiping at her eyes, attempting to control her sorrow so she could speak.

            “Where,” she hiccupped, “where is his body?” Her fingers toyed pointlessly with the collar of his tunic.

            “I took him back to the village where he lived with his wife. I buried him next to her.”

            Talia’s chin quivered. “He would be pleased to know you did that for him.” Her hand dipped inside one of her pockets and withdrew Temujin’s ivory elephant. A fresh wave of tears spilled down her cheeks as she held it up. “I’ve been carrying it in my pocket while he was gone…to help bring him back…to keep him safe.” The sobs welled up again, and Bane folded her back into his arms.

            From beyond his door, Bane detected footsteps drawing near; heavy steps, not Akar following Talia.

            “How did he die?” Talia asked, again trying to compose herself but remaining in Bane’s embrace.

            “He was shot by the police during a heist.”

            “But…but how? Weren’t you and Damien there?”

            “Damien was, yes. I was in a different location. It happened before I could get there.”

            “But if Damien was there, how could Jin have been killed?”

            The footsteps halted outside Bane’s door, followed immediately by the solicitous voice of Rā’s al Ghūl: “Talia? What are you doing in Bane’s room?”


	35. Chapter 35

            Talia gave a small gasp when she heard her father’s displeased voice outside Bane’s door. She called out, “I’m with Bane, Papa. He’s come back.”

            Abruptly the door slid open, but Rā’s did not advance from the threshold, nor did he appear particularly pleased to see his daughter sitting close beside Bane on the bed. Talia seemed to sense this, standing, anxiously turning the ivory elephant over and over in her hands. Bane stood as well, Melisande’s blanket falling away. Then Rā’s noticed the tears streaking Talia’s face, and he started toward her.

            “What’s the matter, child? Why are you crying?”

            “Oh, Papa,” Talia suddenly burst out in fresh tears and rushed to him. “Jin’s dead.”

            Rā’s embraced her, his gaze seeking Bane’s in confusion and disbelief. There was a dark flash of sadness in his gray eyes, but a wall of self-control quickly doused it before he asked, “When did you arrive?”

            “Just a few minutes ago. I was on my way to report to you, but Talia came in.”

            Rā’s frowned and tried to console his daughter, murmuring reassurances into her ear. Then, keeping his voice low, he asked Bane, “Why has Chase not reported to me? Did you not return together?”

            Pain from his injuries surged over Bane, and he ached to replenish the mask, but instead he squared his shoulders and spoke without emotion. “Chase is dead, sir.”

            Both Talia and her father stared incredulously at him, silence dropping over the room except for the crackle of the blossoming fire.

            Talia was the first to find her voice, looking from her father to Bane and back. “No… No…not both of them.”

            Rā’s took her face in his hands, kissed her forehead, and pressed her to him again, closing his own eyes against the grief that this time he could neither deny nor conceal. Bane stood in uncomfortable solitude and dutifully waited.

            When Talia’s sobs had lessened, Rā’s quietly asked, “Where are their bodies?”

            “I buried Jin beside his wife.”

            “And Damien?”

            Bane shifted his weight. “I left him in Shanghai.”

            Outrage flared in Rā’s’ gray eyes. “And if Damien and Temujin are dead and you are here, then where is Bruce Wayne?”

            “He was arrested.”

            A muscle in Rā’s’ tight jaw twitched. Gently he drew Talia away from him, tipped her chin upward, and forced a small smile. “Sweetheart, I must speak with Bane alone. Go to my room, and I will be there in a couple of minutes.”

            “With your permission,” Bane interceded, “I’d like her to stay. She deserves to know the truth of what happened.”

            “Please, Papa. Let me stay. I don’t want to be alone right now.”

            Rā’s considered for a moment as his thumb wiped the tears from her cheeks. Then he kissed the top of her head. “Very well, my pet. Why don’t you sit by the fire and warm yourself?”

            He guided her to the chair at Bane’s desk near the hearth. She did her best to dry her face and sniff back the remainder of her tears. Rā’s’ expression remained solicitous until she was settled, then he stood like a rock beside her, one hand on the chair back, his gaze now hard upon Bane.

            As Bane began his narrative, he tried to master the growing pain from his old wounds, desperately wanting those crystals, but his pride would not allow him to seek solace in front of Rā’s. He focused all his energy on what he was saying, telling them about Temujin’s last visit to the tenement and what he had said about Bruce Wayne. Rā’s listened without interruption, his senses as sharp as an eagle’s, his hands gripping the lapels of his tunic in the old familiar way but now with tension, crinkling the fabric. When Bane spoke of how he had found Temujin dead in the street, Talia’s tears flowed again, but she made no sound now, her whole body bowed beneath her grief.

            “He didn’t deserve to die that way,” Bane said as if to himself, staring into the fire. “He didn’t deserve to die at all. We could have protected him. I should have been there. If not for the motorcycle…if not for Chase…”

            Rā’s bristled. “You are questioning his command decisions?”

            Bane could not restrain his bitterness. “Yes, as I questioned them then. In fact, after what Chase said to me afterwards and after I thought everything over time and time again these past days, I believe Chase sabotaged my motorcycle so I wouldn’t be…so I _couldn’t_ be there for Jin.”

            Rā’s’ hands fell to his sides, one fist clenching. “And what, pray tell, would make Chase do such a thing? Bane, I believe your grief has clouded your judgment—”

            “You weren’t there,” Bane protested loudly, too loudly, the physical pain making his voice hoarse and uncontrollable. “When Chase came back to the tenement afterwards, he told me it had all been his decision to let Wayne be arrested. He planned it after hearing what Jin had said about Wayne. But he knew there was no way I’d agree to a plan that would put Jin at such risk, so he kept me in the dark.”

            Skeptical, Rā’s scowled. “And why would Chase want Wayne arrested?”

            “He said prison would be the last stop for Wayne, that it would shake him out of his apathy toward his criminal life, that it would keep him from slipping away before you could recruit him.”

            “He believed there was no other recourse?”

            “That’s what he told me.”

            “Then that is what you should have believed. Chase was in command of the operation. It was not your place to question him.”

            Bane’s fingers twitched. “Jin is dead because I did not question enough.”

            “Temujin would understand Chase’s decision. He knew how to follow orders. You, on the other hand—”

            Talia stirred. “Papa,” she began to remonstrate, but her father’s pointed stare cowed her.

            Bane took advantage of the distraction. “If Jin would have understood, then why didn’t Chase share his plan with him?”

            “Who is to say he did not?” Rā’s challenged.

            “Chase told me.”

            “And no doubt he gave you a reason.”

            “He said he was afraid Jin’s knowledge could compromise the plan. But he was lying. He’s never liked Jin; he never thought he should have been allowed to rejoin the League. Jin’s death was no sacrifice for the mission; it was murder. Maybe it wasn’t Chase’s bullet, but it might as well have been; he wanted Jin dead.”

            Rā’s’ eyes glowed with rage as he took a step forward. “How dare you make such an accusation?”

            “It’s the truth,” Bane snapped. “I have no doubt.”

            “As I have no doubt that Chase is dead because of you, because of mere speculation on your part.”

            “Papa!” Talia cried.

            “Tell my daughter that I am correct,” Rā’s said, now standing close in front of Bane. “Tell her that you murdered Chase and left him to rot in Shanghai.”

            “No…” Talia stepped beside her father, gripped his arm, her gaze flashing between the two men.

            “You left Bruce Wayne in the dangerous hands of Chinese authorities; you abandoned your post of your own volition; and you left your comrade behind, the League’s second in command, no less. All because of your own bloody impulses, impulses you were warned to guard against since your training days.”

            “I was also taught to listen to my instincts,” Bane countered. “Jin taught me that.”

            “So you took it upon yourself to murder your commander and jeopardize a mission of the highest priority—”

            “Bruce Wayne? The highest priority? A despot you wish to enslave your daughter to for the sake of your own gain.”

            Rā’s grabbed Bane by the collar, his nose up against the mask, face flushed, eyes ablaze. Somehow Bane kept from physically responding to the threat as Talia, crying again, tried to pull her father back.

            “Papa, stop! Bane…please…” Fear had replaced her sorrow as she tried to force herself between the two men.

            “Talia,” Rā’s growled, “leave us. Now!”

            “No, Papa…stop… Please stop…”

            “Let her stay,” Bane said with a hint of sarcasm. “She’s old enough to understand what you have planned for her. Tell her how she will become Bruce Wayne’s whore.”

            Rā’s drove him back against the wall. Still Bane allowed it, for he knew if he did not maintain tight control over himself, he would kill Rā’s just as he had killed Chase, and no matter his own will at the moment, he would not orphan Talia.

            “Papa, stop!” Talia, behind him now, pulled at her father’s shoulders, sobbing, terrified. “Let him go.”

            “You defend this monster,” Rā’s said. “Don’t you understand what he has done?”

            “Please,” she begged. “Stop… Both of you…”

            “You will leave here, Bane,” Rā’s said, measured and cold, his grip loosening but not falling away.

            “No, Papa!” Talia snatched one of his hands away from Bane, pressed it fervently between hers near her heart.

            Bane stared condescendingly at him, impassive, trying to hide all signs of the agony that signaled the final gasps of medicinal supply from the canisters.

            “You will leave,” Rā’s repeated. “You are no longer welcome here. You have proven yourself unworthy of the League and of my protection and favor. And of my daughter.”

            Now anger burst through Talia’s fear and sorrow. “Papa, no! You can’t send him away. Have you forgotten all he’s done for us? I won’t allow it—”

            Rā’s turned upon her, startling her back a step. “Leave us, Talia; this instant.”

            “I will not.” Her jaw tightened. “If you send Bane away, I’m going with him.”

            Rā’s pointed toward the door. “The only place you are going, young lady, is to your room…now!”

            Talia reached for Bane’s hand, but her father captured her wrist.

            “You will obey me, Talia.”

            Before she could respond, Bane calmly said, “Do as he says, _habibati_.”

            “No.” She tried to break her father’s grip as Rā’s dragged her toward the door. “You can’t send him away, Papa. I _will_ go with him.”

            On the threshold, Rā’s freed her, stabbed a finger over her shoulder. “Go to your room, Talia.”

            “I’m not a child!”

            “You are behaving like one. Now do as you’re told.”

            Rā’s remained between them, Talia’s pleading gaze reaching to Bane who now stood near the foot of his bed. The pain of his injuries was not the only reason behind the moisture in his eyes.

            “Go,” Bane urged her with a nod of assurance, the word gravelly and strained.

            “Don’t leave me, _habibi_. Take me with you.”

            “Go,” Rā’s ordered. “He will be allowed to stay the night, and you can say your good-byes in the morning. But if you do not obey me now, I will send him out this very minute and you won’t be allowed to say another word to him.”

            Again she looked to Bane, and again he nodded, this time more emphatically.

            With a final glare at her father, one filled with emotions Bane had not witnessed in her since her mother’s murder, Talia wheeled, her hair swirling about her like a cape, her hands balled into fists. Her footsteps echoed on the wooden catwalk as she stormed away.

            Rā’s turned back to Bane but remained near the door. He had regained control of his temper, though his anger still dominated his expression. “You will leave in the morning unless, of course, you choose to leave now. Consider yourself fortunate that you are even allowed to leave this place alive. As with Temujin, there will be those in the League who may deem it unwise to let someone with such knowledge of our organization walk away. But regardless of your recent mistakes, the fact will always remain that you saved my daughter’s life. Only for that do I show you mercy.” He paused, half turned to leave, then paused. “You may take your sidearm and whatever personal belongings that you can carry on your back.” His glance stabbed toward Bane’s bed. “My wife’s blanket, however, will remain here.”


	36. Chapter 36

            By the time Bane had finished packing his meager belongings, darkness had swallowed the last scrap of nacreous light trailing in through the window. The beckoning smells of supper served in the common room reached him even behind his closed door. The usual hum of conversation from those at table, however, could not be heard. No doubt the men were subdued by the news of their comrades’ deaths and Bane’s part in it all. He wondered how much detail Rā’s had divulged. Bane had considered joining his comrades for his final meal at the monastery, but Rā’s had made it plain that he was no longer welcome at the League’s table. Talia had refused her father’s invitation to accompany him downstairs. Instead she remained behind her closed bedroom door.

            Rā’s’ devastating words still rang in Bane’s ears. Though he had hid his true feelings during the confrontation, once Rā’s had left him alone, a sick sensation had flooded Bane. He had scrambled to replenish his mask, hoping that the crystals would override his emotional unrest as well as the physical pain, but he found that the drug only combatted the latter. Rā’s’ remarks had cut him deeply, injuring him even worse than his own father’s rejection. Over these past years with the League, he had come to view Rā’s as a surrogate father. And though he knew Rā’s held no deep affection for him as he did for Damien Chase, Bane had believed that the man did at least feel a particular warmth toward him for his dedication both to the League and to his daughter. Yet perhaps his assumption, his hope, had been baseless, and he had merely deluded himself.

            Following their argument, Rā’s had disappeared into his daughter’s room. Even with the door shut, Bane—and anyone else in the dormitory—easily heard the explosive exchange between stern father and willful teenager. Of course this was not the first time the two had fought, but it was certainly the most volatile. Though Bane hated hearing such strife between them—especially since he was the cause of it—he admitted immense satisfaction in Talia’s defense of him, even in the face of what he had done to Chase. She knew him so well; she would understand the reasons behind his actions.

            “If you send Bane away, Papa,” she had threatened at the top of her voice, “I will hate you forever!”

            Thinking of his own father, Bane had cringed upon hearing Talia’s threat. He did not want to be the catalyst of such an estrangement. Though Rā’s’ plans for his daughter were loathsome, he was still the one person who could safeguard Talia, both materially and physically. Surely Rā’s would not exile his own child just because she defended her friend; her father had to realize that her raw emotions were driven by her grief for Temujin, not just by her protector’s predicament.

            Bane set his pack on the floor beside his desk, which was poignantly empty now. Its framed photographs of Talia—including one with her father standing with his arms around her, smiling, all hardness gone from his eyes—had been packed away. He sighed and turned back toward his bed, stared mournfully at Melisande’s blanket. Though Rā’s had not ripped it away from him at the end of their argument, Bane knew the man had meant what he said—the blanket would have to remain behind with its rightful owner. Bane told himself that it was silly to cling to such an article, especially now that he was older, and that it was just as well that Rā’s kept it; it would make it easier for him to put his past life behind him—the pit, the League, Rā’s himself.

            Talia’s gift still sat on his pillow, unopened. It was safe to unwrap it now, he told himself; he no longer had to fear that what had transpired between him and her father would make her want to take the present back. And there was no room in his bulging pack for a box.

            He brought the gift to the desk where he sat and worked his fingers beneath the tape that held the shiny green paper together. Inside was a box; more tape. Removing the lid, he pawed through the layers of red tissue paper, his curiosity growing, his eagerness, as if he were a boy again. From the soft nest, he lifted something made of brown leather, hollow with openings at each end and three straps around its circumference. Sturdy, rich leather, the fresh smell of it pleasing to him. A note inside, written in Talia’s delicate, small cursive: _Welcome home, Haris. I had this brace made especially for you. I know how much your wrist still pains you. I hope this will help. Love always, Talia_.

            Bane smiled, his whole being filled with happiness. His _habibati_ …always so thoughtful as well as practical. Intrigued, he slipped the brace on his right hand. A flat piece of metal within the leather—titanium perhaps, for it was light—ran the length of the brace’s underside, following the contours of wrist and palm. He tightened the three straps then held up his hand, wriggled his fingers. The immediate support made him nod with satisfaction. Restrictive enough to limit the bend of his wrist while still allowing his fingers to flex.

            Afraid he might somehow forget to take the brace with him come morning, he removed it, admired it for a moment, then carefully tucked it into his pack.

            Footsteps drew near to his door, followed by Akar’s voice, sounding hollow and drawn, “Bane, I brought you something to eat.”

            Bane frowned at the prospect of seeing his young friend’s disappointment and perhaps anger. Yet when he opened the door, he found only sorrow and regret on Akar’s scarred face. Shadows darkened his single eye.

            Bane started to take the tray, thanking him even though he had no stomach for food right now, but Akar did not relinquish the tray. “May I come in?”

            After a brief hesitation, Bane nodded and admitted him, closing the door behind him.

            “I’m sorry about Temujin,” the young man murmured as he set the tray on the desk.

            Bane’s frown deepened. “Me, too.”

            They stood in awkward silence for a moment before Akar asked, “May I sit down?”

            “It would probably be best for you if you didn’t stay, Akar.”

            The young man scowled. “I don’t care what others think; you’re my friend; you’ve always been my friend. And I’m not just going to let you walk out of here without talking to you. I’m not the one excommunicating you. I think it’s wrong, it’s all wrong. It’s not fair.”

            Bane held up his hand, his expression easing with Akar’s passionate display. “It’s all right. There’s no need for you to be angry. I accept the consequences of my actions.”

            “Well, I don’t. I want to come with you. I don’t want to stay here, not after this.”

            “Akar, you don’t even know where I’m going. This is your home. You’re needed here.”

            “For what? To cook and clean? Let them find someone else.”

            “No, not for that—for Talia.”

            His words took Akar by surprise, driving him into stunned silence. He blinked as if into a dazzling light. “What do you mean?”

            Bane pulled the desk chair out for Akar to sit in then shuffled to his bed. His back was particularly aching after the day’s trek through the mountains, and for that very reason he dreaded tomorrow’s journey. As he sat, his fingers automatically brushed against Melisande’s blanket beneath him.

            “What I mean,” he continued, “is since I will no longer be here for Talia, she will need you even more.”

            “Me? She doesn’t need _me_. She needs you.”

            “But I can’t be here. You, however, can…and must.”

            “She’s barely here. And, besides, what good am I?”

            “You mean a lot to her. And you will mean even more now that Jin is gone. I fear what has happened today will drive a wedge between Talia and her father. For that I am sorry, but what’s done is done. So now it must fall to you to look out for her, to counsel her. You are like a brother to her, Akar.”

            Akar snorted derisively. “A brother.”

            Bane could not help but smile beneath his mask. “I know you would like to be more to her, but you and I both know Talia’s sights are set far beyond men like us. If you and I had our way, you two would be together, here where she will always be safe. But Talia is no caged bird.”

            “Like me.”

            “Don’t wish yourself gone from here so badly, Akar. I have seen what lies beyond these mountains. Greed, hate, corruption, ugliness. People look upon men like us as creatures beneath their boots. Anything beyond the familiar is to be reviled and feared, crushed out and forgotten. There is much to be said of simplicity and peace. When I am away, I miss it as much as I miss those I care about.”

            Akar acquiesced with a reluctant nod.

            “So you must promise me,” Bane continued, “you will be here for Talia, in whatever capacity she requires. It will make my departure easier to bear…for me as well as for her.”

            Akar’s head was bowed and he quietly sniffed and rubbed his nose, glanced toward the neglected tray. “You should eat before it grows cold.”

            “Do I have your pledge on this?” Bane pressed.

            Akar frowned, his dark hair flopping forward to partially hide his face. “Are you sure I can’t go with you?”

            “I’m sure. I’ve lost one friend to the evils that live beyond these mountains; I’ll not hazard losing another, even if it means we may not see one another again. To know you are safe and that you are watching over Talia…I will take great comfort in that.”

            Akar shuffled his feet and got up. “All right then…you have my word.” He hesitated. “Where will you go?”

            “For now I will go to Talia’s grandmother. She promised me long ago that should I ever need anything, she would help me. I’m hoping that still holds true.” He also got to his feet. “Now, you should go before Jamyang starts shouting for you. I will see you in the morning before I leave.”

            Akar nodded sadly and shambled across the room. Opening the door, he paused there to look back at Bane. A certain gleam of purpose and responsibility, of pride in himself and in Bane tempered the sorrow in his moist eye. “Don’t think that everyone is displeased about losing Chase. You still have friends here, men who believe in you. We won’t forget you.”

            These words warmed Bane and eased the tightness in his chest. “Thank you, Akar.”

            The young man nodded, produced a tight smile. “Good night, Bane.”

#

            That evening Choden stopped by Bane’s room to say good-bye and to physically examine him, as he did after every mission. Choden did not broach the subject of what Bane had done to Damien Chase. Instead he simply expressed his condolences over Temujin’s death and his deep regret over Rā’s al Ghūl’s decision to excommunicate him.

            “He said he will make sure your supply of medication will continue,” Choden told him, writing on a piece of paper at Bane’s desk. “This is the contact information for our supplier. I will let them know to no longer send the drugs here and that you will be contacting them to tell them where you want the supplies sent.”

            Rā’s’ generosity on this matter surprised Bane, though he wondered if, in time, such favor would be withdrawn. If so, he would need to be prepared.

            “I will miss you,” Choden said when they shook hands. “And I believe Rā’s will regret his decision once his grief and anger over Chase passes. I will hold out hope that you are allowed to return someday.”

            “Maybe you’re right about Rā’s regretting this. However, even if that comes to pass, I still can’t see him inviting me back. Chase told me how Rā’s thinks only of his wife’s death whenever he looks at me.”

            Choden grumbled something then said, “Chase wanted to hurt you; that is all. He was jealous of you from the first day he heard what you had done for Melisande and Talia…and thus—indirectly—for Rā’s.”

            “No, I believe Chase was telling the truth on that matter.” Bane shrugged one shoulder in an attempt at apathy. “I suppose I would feel the same way Rā’s does if the situation were reversed. _That_ I can understand, but his designs on Talia’s future I cannot.”

            Choden grunted, his glance touching upon Melisande’s blanket. “That’s because you love her in a different way than her father does. But you both love her, and she is lucky for that.”

            “You won’t let her forget me?” Bane asked hopefully.

            Amusement eased some of Choden’s gloominess. “She will not need me to remind her about you. She loves no one like she loves you.”

            Bane’s face warmed, and he had to look away from his friend.

            “She will stay in contact with you,” Choden assured.

            “If her father lets her.”

            “He is excommunicating you, Bane, not ending your life. And that should tell you that he understands how much you mean to his daughter, regardless of what he may or may not feel for you himself.”

            Bane nodded with a frown.

            “Now,” Choden said, “I will leave you to get your rest. You will need it even more now, once you are on your own. Akar told me that you will seek assistance from Talia’s grandmother.”

            “Yes.”

            “Very good. I’m sure she will help you. No mother could ever forget what you’ve done for her child and her grandchild.” He imparted a final smile. “Now I must go. I find that I’m getting maudlin in my old age, and it will do neither of us any good if I stay any longer. So…good-bye, my friend. I hope we see one another again someday.”


	37. Chapter 37

            Sleep eluded Bane; his mind would not rest, could not keep from dwelling upon the next day and all that lay before him. Though he was used to traveling throughout the world, now he would have no definitive purpose or resources, no home, and he would be completely alone. What if Maysam either refused or could not help him? Would he be able to survive on his own, especially considering his mask and all the limitations it put upon him, not the least of which was nourishment? Even when away from the monastery on an op, Bane’s rations had been prepared ahead of time by Jamyang, a special blend of nutrients, easily ingested; on extended ops, he received rations through various drops to supplement what he ate via other means. This new aspect of his life would present but one challenge among innumerable others. How could he ever prepare himself mentally and physically for all of them, especially with no time in advance for such planning?

            It was deep in the night, the low fire in his hearth threatening to die away, when Bane detected the whisper of movement that betrayed the opening of his door, the shift in the room’s atmosphere. Then the door closed just as quietly, and Talia slipped toward him, an amorphous form, dressed only in a short, belted kimono.

            “Talia,” he whispered, starting to sit up, “you shouldn’t be here. Your father—”

            She touched his shoulder, encouraging him to lie back down. “I don’t care about my father,” she said in a quiet pout as she pulled back Melisande’s blanket and slipped in beside him.

            Against his better judgment, Bane moved over to allow her more room, but she shifted with him, one hand drifting across his bare chest, not allowing him to escape. Her warm breath tickled his neck and shoulder, her hair draping against him in a soft, sweet-smelling flow. Her fragrance commanded his senses, reminding him of a field full of spring wildflowers near Temujin’s valley home the first time the Mongol had taken him there. Shadows mercifully cloaked the responsive flush of his cheeks. His body’s burgeoning reaction took him by surprise, alarmed and embarrassed him. Though dressed in the loose-fitting pants he always wore to bed, they would not disguise an erection should Talia’s arm or leg begin to drift. Where had this come from, this sudden burst of animal desire? She was a child; he was her protector, nothing more.

            “Talia, you shouldn’t have come.” He tried to guide her hand back toward her body.

            Disappointment laced through her words, “You don’t want me here?”

            “That’s not it.”

            “I can’t sleep. I don’t want you to go.”

            “I know, but—”

            “Where will you go? You’ll be alone…”

            “I will go to your grandmother.”

            “Oh,” she said with relief, “yes, of course. Grandmama will help you. I will write to her before you leave. You can take the letter with you. I’ll tell her how horrible Papa was to you. She knows all about Jin, of course; she will understand.”

            “You must not try to turn your grandmother against your father. She will help me without you resorting to that. There’s no need for her to know all that’s happened here.”

            “But I tell her everything. She says she loves my letters and everything I tell her; it makes us feel close. If I went with you—”

            “Your grandfather cannot see you or know anything about you, Talia; you know that. It’s not safe.”

            “But after all this time…and I’m grown now—”

            “That is not your decision. Maybe one day your grandmother will feel it is safe, but that’s something only she can say. You don’t know your grandfather, and if you remember what he put you and your mother through, then maybe you’ll think more clearly on this.”

            The slight pout returned. “I _must_ go with you. We could leave tonight, right now. Papa would never know.”

            “He would surely know; he is your father, little mouse. If he has not guarded against it tonight, then as surely as the sun will rise over the mountains tomorrow, he would fetch you back and be all the angrier with both of us for it. I have caused enough grief. Perhaps I should have left long ago.”

            “Don’t say that, _habibi_. This is your home. It always will be, no matter what Papa says. He doesn’t deserve you. And I think he knows, deep inside, what you said is true—how wrong it is of him to have such selfish, awful plans for me. Well, he can believe whatever he likes; I will be with whomever I want to be with, and it isn’t Bruce Wayne. Papa had no right to keep such a thing from me. I’m glad you said what you did and in front of me. _You_ knew I had a right to know the truth. I never thought Papa could be so hateful.”

            “But you must not lose his favor, Talia. You must stay in school as he wants; you must go to university. You can have all the things your mother and I never had. I want that for you; _we_ want that for you. You would break her heart if she knew you threw everything away just to follow some broken-down soldier who has nothing to offer you, no future except one of hardship.”

            “Don’t say such things. You’ve given me everything. I wouldn’t be alive, I wouldn’t be the person I am now if not for you. Yes, Papa has given me material things, and he claims he loves me, but how can he truly love me if he’s so willing to send away someone who’s done so much for me, who means the world to me? And if he loved me, he wouldn’t want to force me to marry someone like Bruce Wayne. Bruce Wayne isn’t half the man you are. And Papa will see that once he meets him.”

            “Your father does love you, Talia.”

            “Well, I don’t love him.”

            Bane brushed the hair back from her face. “Of course you do.”

            She covered his hand with hers, said nothing for a long moment. Her fingers trailed the length of his arm, exploring his hard muscles, sending a shiver up his back. “It’s you I love,” she murmured, “and Papa doesn’t like it.”

            “Now you’re talking foolishness, _habibati_.”

            Her touch drifted to his mask, slowly tracing the edges where it pressed against his face. “You’ll be so alone…as will I.”

            Bane tried to instill amusement into his tone to distract both of them. “You won’t be alone, little mouse; you have many friends at school. And you will have more at university.”

            “I’m not like them, _habibi_. And they aren’t like you.”

            “I should hope not,” he teased.

            Her index finger caressed the mask the way she used to caress his lips as a curious child, and for one painful moment he thought he could feel her warmth reach the scarred remains of his lips. He closed his eyes, and a soft, unwitting moan escaped him.

            “You’re the only one who understands me, Bane, and I’m the only one who understands you. And that’s how it will always be.” Her lips brushed against his eyelids in two feather-light kisses as her encroaching scent flooded through the mask, entrapping him. Somewhere distant, the fire gave a final dying hiss, claiming the last scrap of light in the room, returning them to the darkness of the pit where all they had and all they needed was each other.

            Talia’s kisses progressed to his forehead on either side of the mask’s headpiece, as gentle and delicate as the snowflakes that used to dance in the air around her while she skated on the glacial lake under his watchful, admiring eye. The League’s brand and the scars he had acquired over these past years…her lips touched each and every one, her wild hair falling across him in a silken wave, drowning him in pleasure. He knew he should stop her, but he could not, not now, not on this last night. Here in the wonderful darkness she was no longer a child; she was as much an alluring woman as her mother had been, and no bars separated them.

            She straddled his belly, her kisses unbroken as her hands kneaded his shoulders, melting away the tension he held there, awakening the heat of his flesh. Unbidden, his fingers trailed through her hair, the tie of her belt brushing against him with each of her movements. In one last, half-hearted attempt to stop this, he hoarsely said her name, but she shushed him, her kisses now falling upon the mask as if to capture his mouth and silence him. He kept his eyes closed, imagined that their lips were indeed touching, swore he could feel her softness, taste her. Under the blanket, one of his hands slid down her back. How he longed to feel the smooth flesh beneath the rich, watery silk of her kimono. Talia reached between their bodies and untied the belt. The kimono opened, draped along his ribs, freeing her small, round breasts. She guided his hand to one of them as her unrelenting kisses continued. Bane groaned, desired with agonizing passion to put his mouth upon her.

            Pushing the waistband of his pants down along his hips, Talia lowered her weight against the undeniable length of him. He wrapped his arms around her small form, pressed her to him so tightly that she gave a small gasp of surprise, then quietly scolded him in an amused whisper. His grip loosened slightly, enough for her to slip her hand between them. As her fingers—gentle yet strong at the same time—caressed his erection, he had to muffle his moan in her hair for fear of being heard beyond this room. Then the wonderful tightening of her hand, the movement back and forth, the sweat of their flesh, sliding, sliding. Her hips moved against him as well, and it took every ounce of control for him to restrain himself, to not crush her within his embrace.

            As if he had done this hundreds of times before, he shifted his weight so that she lay beneath him, his pants now a tangled wad at his feet. He opened his eyes at last, found hers closed in pleasure, barely discernable amidst the turbulence of her hair, her lips parted. His finger traced those lips, dipped inside, and she closed her mouth, allowed him to explore her tongue as she began to sensually suck. She arched her pelvis toward him, her hand guiding him to her warm wetness.

            “ _Habibati_ ,” he whispered, barely able to locate his voice, “you are too small; I will hurt you.”

            “No…you could never hurt me.” Her eyes opened for a moment, alive with a woman’s desire and assurance. Her hand trailed along the mask then drew him back down to her, her other hand tantalizingly rubbing the engorged head of his penis against her swollen heat.

            There was no denying either of them now, and he did what, until now, he had only read about and dreamed of, the act that he had imagined so many empty, torturous times. Talia whimpered once beneath him, but when he hesitated, her hands closed around his taut buttocks, and with a thrust of her hips, she sent him deeper, gasping. Then she began to move in a whole new way, her long, smooth legs wrapping around him, their bodies truly one, in sync as they had always been but within another realm now. And after his shuddering release, he held her for as long as he dared, afraid to let her go, knowing what it would mean…knowing there would never be another moment in his life as sweet as this.

#

            When Bane awoke, Talia was gone, gone before anyone could discover them. Though her departure pained him, he knew she had left only out of necessity. The room was cold, the fire long dead. For a lengthy moment he lay there, wondering if her presence in his bed had been a mere dream. But then he caught her scent where it lingered on Melisande’s blanket and on his flesh as well as his mask. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply, smiled, remembered, relived the sensations, the excitement, the race of his blood, the beat of her heart against his chest. Surprisingly he felt no shame when he considered their age difference. There in the dark, beneath the blankets they were simply one, not a man and a teenager but two old souls melded together, emotionally and physically, so familiar that there had been no awkwardness, only a natural progression.

            Reluctantly Bane left the solace of his blankets, wondering when he would next sleep in a bed. His slumber had been deep, untroubled, but now the stark reality of his situation returned to steal the remaining warmth from his body as he dressed. Night still lay heavily upon the monastery, and not even a whisper of wind breathed against his window. He reckoned dawn to still be an hour or so away. Lighting the oil lamp beside his bed, he went to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom to find the last of the crystals that he had left unpacked.

            With a fresh flow of opiate coursing into the mask, he went to his dresser and brought forth the gifts that he had brought back from China for Talia. They were not wrapped, of course; even if he had been capable of such a thing, the paper never would have survived the long journey back to the monastery without being hopelessly crumpled. He laid the items on the desk where they would easily be found. Fortunately the hat and scarf had not been too badly mauled in his pack. The hat was black wool, a jaunty little thing that would match Talia’s personality; the scarf was of the finest silk, a blend of black and red designs. _Red is your color, my little mouse. Vibrant and fiery, like you_ , he wrote on a slip of paper beside the items.

            As he wrote, his gaze touched for a moment on his small finger—that perpetually bent digit on his right hand; how sensually she had kissed it, lovingly, as if trying to heal it. She had kissed the ragged scar on his back as well, trailing her caresses from where it started on his neck all the way down past his waist to where it ended and beyond. Where had she learned such tenderness, such skill? Her deftness had nearly put him to shame for all his years her senior, and he sensed that she thoroughly enjoyed for once being able to take the lead in something, to teach him, as kindly and patiently as he had taught her how to read those many years ago.

            Refocusing, Bane placed the other gift beside the hat and scarf: a pair of brilliant sapphire earrings, small and not too mature for one so young. As with the hat and scarf, he had purchased these, but on the note he left atop them, he wrote: _From Jin. These reminded him of your beautiful eyes. May you always remember him whenever you wear them_.

            Unexpected emotion welled up at the thought of his dead friend, and Bane knew it was time to go. So he quickly donned his cold weather gear and took one last look around the snug room, thought of all the time he had spent there with Talia, Choden, Temujin, and Akar. He frowned when he realized he would be leaving without saying good-bye to Akar as he had promised. Well, he thought as he shrugged into his pack and adjusted the straps, Akar would understand; after all, the young man knew him better than anyone except Talia…and Temujin.

            He went to extinguish the lamp but paused beside his bed. With a heavy heart, he slowly drew Melisande’s blanket into his arms. He pressed it against the mask, breathed in Talia’s scent, imagined her warmth still upon it, giving it life and stirring so many memories, the few good memories from the pit and now the fresh, exquisite memories of their final, brief night together. He considered taking it with him, not only because he desperately wanted to but because he knew how such a disobedience would infuriate Talia’s obdurate father. But, after a moment, he began to fold the blanket, noting with pride how his care had preserved the material all these years.

            Once it was folded, smooth and precise, Bane hugged it to his chest a final time, closing his eyes and thanking Melisande for the comfort she had given him through it. Tenderly he placed it on his pillow. Yes, he would leave it here but not for Rā’s al Ghūl, and not because Rā’s had ordered it so; no, he would leave it for Talia, so she would forget neither her mother nor her protector, a man who truly loved her, who would never forget her. And, he hoped, one who would someday hold her in his arms again.

            Then, when he doused the lamp, the shadows stole out from the corners of the room, and he became one with them as he silently slipped away from all that he loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find out what happens next for Bane in my third story, INTO THE FIRE.
> 
> And if you are interested in my writing beyond Bane's world, check out my author website: skkeogh.com


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